Teacher of Music
by Allison Lane
Summary: Christine Daae is taught to sing by a more earthly entity...
1. Teacher of Music Part One

Teacher of Music - Part One

Teacher of Music, Part One  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "Monsieur Reyer, our chief répétiteur. Rather a tyrant, I'm afraid."  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene One    
  
  
_Crash._  
  
The discordant smash of piano keys being thumped in irritation splintered the stuffy air of the rehearsal room.  
  
"Signor Piangi, if you _please_," the chorus master, Monsieur Reyer, sighed with strained patience, "we say _Rome_. Not Roma. Rooooome. _Please_ make an effort, Signor, not to add an 'a' to every word you speak!"  
  
The fat tenor paused as a smattering of hushed laughter rippled across the assembled company, then began repeating the offensive word to himself in an attempt to correct his error. He was still pronouncing it wrong.  
  
Reyer gritted his teeth, clenching his hands on the edge of the piano where the singers couldn't see it. The casting for the new production of _Hannibal_ was a complete travesty, as it always was at the Paris Opera. Ubaldo Piangi, the principal tenor, was pompous and overblown as the title character, and it utterly failed the chorus master's mind to see how anyone was supposed to act as if they were in love with him. Well, not completely. La Carlotta Giudicelli, a prima donna in every sense of the word and then some, had been cast as the Queen of Carthage. The blustering tenor and the reigning diva went together like two rotten peas in a pod.  
  
The chorus was unwieldy and overbalanced, and while the ballet girls were a fine dancing lot, none of them could sing. Unfortunately, singing was required of them in this opera. Eight of them were clustered in the back of the room now, whispering and giggling and generally making a nuisance of themselves.  
  
The vague whispering was steadily growing into an uproar now that he had been silent for all of two seconds, and Reyer banged on the piano again to attract the company's attention. "Principals, rest and look over your score, please—I would like to work with the chorus on Hannibal's entrance into Carthage. Ballet, that means you—wake up and pay attention, please!" This said with a glare in their direction. Reyer, who had always been short on patience as a rule, found himself especially lacking in it now. Under his withering gaze, the ever-excitable dancers were obliged to sit up a bit straighter and quiet down, a turn of behavior they usually exhibited only in the presence of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress. Piangi was still muttering to himself, while Carlotta seemed to be preparing to put on a great show of requiring attention.  
  
Reyer gave the chorus an appraising eye, then began the introduction to the women's chorus on the piano and cued them in at the appropriate moment. They were a half-beat late, wobbly and unsure, though he was prepared to let that slide for the time being if they got back on track quickly enough. After all, this was the company's first real run-through together. Reyer was a perfectionist and normally very insistent in everyone getting everything right the _first_ time, but certain allowances had to be made with this band of artists. They had become notorious for never getting anything right at all.  
  
Despite their unsatisfactory start Reyer kept the chorus singing, determined to get through more than one measure, and had succeeded in going through one and a half when Carlotta suddenly exploded in a flurry of exclamations in her native tongue, clapping her hands over her ears as if in pain. Reyer stopped playing the accompaniment; the chorus came to a clumsy, prolonged halt as the last chord died away. Carlotta was still shrieking in her incredibly high-pitched voice, oblivious to the fact that everyone had stopped singing.  
  
"_Signora!_" Reyer thundered.  
  
Carlotta abruptly quieted, taking her hands away from her ears and composing herself somewhat. Somehow she managed to look slighted, insulted, annoyed, and holier-than-thou all at the same time.  
  
"What is it now?" Reyer continued acidly, perturbed at her blatant disregard for rehearsal etiquette.  
  
Carlotta huffed, wounded by his continued refusal to play nice. "I simply cannot bear to listen to those little sprites in the back! They cannot sing! Is it not obvious how off pitch they are?"  
  
The ballet dancers immediately grew red-faced and indignant. Someone in the chorus tittered. Reyer had actually thought they were doing quite admirably given their lack of vocal training, but he wasn't about to let Carlotta know that. She would want to put on an air of superiority, argue about the lack of talent at the Paris Opera, and expect Reyer to agree with her, and rehearsal would effectively be shot. "I didn't write the score, Signora," he replied, as calmly as possible. "I apologize if it offends your ears but the ballet is required to sing in this opera, so sing they shall. If you do not like it, wear earplugs."  
  
Carlotta folded her arms and put on a martyred look, but did not reply. Reyer cleared his throat. "Now that that rude interruption is past us, I should like to try that entrance again, chorus. Try to be a little more confident. After four." He played the preceding measure of music and gave them the cue to come in. The majority of the chorus was once again half a beat late but this time they were more sure of themselves. And again, they had no sooner reached the measure where the ballet girls entered than Carlotta began kicking up a fuss.  
  
"One of them sings like a dying sparrow!" she said loudly as the chorus came to a screeching halt, ignoring Reyer who was giving her the look of death from behind the piano. She stood and turned to glare at the ballet girls. "None of you deserve to be called singers! But one of you I will not tolerate any longer!" Carlotta turned to Reyer. "I demand you expose this absurdity now!"  
  
_What in the world is she up to?_ Reyer heaved a long-suffering sigh. He had learned long ago that the best way to achieve any semblance of peace in rehearsal was to submit to Carlotta's every whim. Of course, that didn't mean he had to grovel like the Opera's manager, Lefevre. And that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.  
  
"Very well, stand up, you lot," he said, gesturing to the dancers. "Sing your first line and perhaps we can get on with rehearsal." He played their opening note, then indicated that they should come in. The ballet girls sang their line like weak mechanical robots, but Reyer could not detect anyone so miserably off pitch as to incur Carlotta's wrath. He raised an eyebrow at the diva. "Satisfied, Signora?"  
  
"No." Carlotta pointed seemingly at random to one dancer, a pale little thing with dark hair and wide eyes who, to Reyer's knowledge, had never uttered a word to anyone expect Madame Giry and Giry's daughter, Meg. "Make her sing by herself."  
  
Reyer frowned. "Just who is running this rehearsal, Signora, you or me?" In the back all the ballet girls save for the younger Giry had broken out in another fit of whispering and giggling. It seemed to be directed at Carlotta's chosen victim, who looked positively stricken. It looked like someone was about to be made an example of, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Reyer thumped the piano keys again to quiet the chatter and fixed his perpetually irritated gaze on the ballet girl. "For the sake of rehearsal, mam'selle, yes? You can begin when ready."  
  
There was a silence in which the ballet girl mustered her courage and began. Reyer could see her lips moving, but could hear no sound coming out. The other ballet girls began snickering in earnest. Reyer's brow furrowed. "Well?"  
  
"She sang it, sir," little Giry piped up in defense of her friend.  
  
Carlotta's exquisitely painted lips curved up in a triumphant smirk, almost as if she had known all along what the outcome of her request would be. "I was wrong. She does not sing like a dying sparrow." She paused. "She sings like a _dead_ sparrow!"  
  
At that, the entire assembled company burst out in raucous laughter. The little ballet girl shrank down in her seat and looked as though she wanted nothing more than to die on the spot. Reyer, who had absolutely no patience for Carlotta's vindictive turns, brought his fist down upon the piano keys in a fury. The resulting crash of chords shut everyone up immediately. "Signora, that is _enough!_" he spat. "I can see that this rehearsal has been conveniently ruined. You are all dismissed until the afternoon session." He glared at Carlotta. "I trust you will be conducting yourselves in a more civilized manner."  
  
Carlotta stared back at him for a moment, looking oddly pleased, then without a word stood and swept out of the rehearsal room after wrapping her furs securely about her shoulders. Piangi stuck his nose in the air and followed like the trained dog that he was.  
  
The rest of the company watched them leave, then began to gather up their things and make for the exit in groups of two and three, happy at the prospect of escaping practice for the morning. The ballet girls all left together, as was their custom, save for Meg Giry and her timid little friend. Reyer didn't notice. He was sitting on the piano bench trying to keep from shredding the open score before him with his bare hands and fuming. God, how he despised Carlotta! He really was not paid enough for this, this insipid bowing and groveling and kissing dirt to appease the diva. His contract never said that a good grasp of Opera politics was part of the job requirement! He was only here to teach the singers their score and to run rehearsals, not to play resident company diplomat. Perhaps if things had gone differently for him he wouldn't be trapped in this mess—  
  
Reyer was startled from his silent rage by a sniffle. He peered over the top of the piano to see the little ballet girl still hunched in her chair, apparently engrossed in a self-pity trip of her own. He coughed, loud in the silence. "Mademoiselle, you had best be getting on. Madame Giry will be missing you."  
  
She looked up at him quickly, and blinked. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"You have ballet rehearsal as well, do you not?"  
  
"Oh. Yes." She picked up her copy of the score and stood, embarrassed. Reyer noticed her eyes were red. Letting the score fall awkwardly against the front of her dress, she sniffled again, glanced at him as if to say something, then changed her mind and simply walked out. Reyer watched her close the door, leaving him alone in the rehearsal room. Alone—he could not remember a time when he had not been.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
There was nothing exceedingly spectacular about Reyer's life. He had been born in Paris, raised in Paris, and would most likely die in Paris. The son of middle-class parents who never had much to do with him, Reyer spent much of his childhood alone amusing himself and upon entering young adulthood began entertaining dreams of stardom on the stage. At the conservatory he was an average student who displayed a decent amount of talent on the piano. After graduating he auditioned for and landed small roles in a few operas. But fate seemed to have him destined for a life spent behind the stage instead of on it. The Paris Opera somehow ended up hiring him as their chorus master, where he could still sing but only when correcting others in their own vocal mistakes. The bitterness of that disappointment never fully left him, but money was money and he was desperately in need of a steady salary. In time Reyer grew to love his new job but would never have dared to admit that fact to anyone, least of all himself.  
  
Reyer's disposition had never been a particularly friendly one, and yet he never seemed to wonder—or care—why he had no friends. He was still relatively young, in his very early thirties, and still what was considered a decent marriageable age. But his natural tendency towards sarcasm, general unconcern for other peoples' feelings, and lack of any real social skills did an efficient job of keeping everyone but the most casual acquaintances away. Reyer did get along fairly well with Madame Giry, but that was probably because his methods of controlling the Opera populace were very similar to hers. Togther they ran very strict and productive rehearsals.  
  
His professional life was very hectic and took up most of Reyer's waking hours; but in what little time was left for his personal life there was almost nothing at all. His schedule simply did not allow time for close friends of any sort, and his personality was too irritable to attract any.  
  
In the end, he was always left alone. He just seemed too busy to notice.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
The afternoon rehearsal was not much of an improvement over the morning's.  
  
Most of the company was slow to arrive, having taken advantage of the sudden increase in their free time by escaping out of the Opera into the cafes of Paris for a breath of spring air. The ballet girls had been the first to return to the rehearsal room. Tired and rather cranky after their hours of practice with Madame Giry, they were not looking forward to the hours of ridicule they would doubtlessly receive from the chorus, so they made up for it by ridiculing the one shy little dancer instead.  
  
Carlotta was nearly late—on purpose, of course; she required crowds for her entrances. With Piangi trailing behind as usual, the diva had smirked at her earlier object of scorn and seated herself haughtily in her self-appointed place front and center by the piano. Reyer had to wonder why Carlotta's latest scheme was. She only tormented those who represented a threat to her position as diva, and as those were very few and far between, why on earth should she now pick a harmless dancer to antagonize? The child would never have a chance of displacing Carlotta in a million years. She lacked ambition, that much was clear. And besides, she was a _dancer_. She probably couldn't even sing her basic scales correctly.  
  
It took Reyer nearly five minutes to get the company calm enough to begin warming up, something they should have done already anyway. Carlotta put on a great show of boredom, singing her scales an entire octave higher than she was supposed to. Reyer ignored her. That part passed painlessly enough, and Reyer was only too glad to begin working on the score again. To get it over with, he decided to work on Carlotta's Act Three aria. The matter of Hannibal's entrance into Carthage he would deal with last.  
  
One run through Elissa's great aria was enough to convince Reyer it wouldn't have to be rehearsed again, at least not until the dress rehearsals began. Carlotta sang it flawlessly, or at least as flawlessly as she would ever be capable of singing it. She could hit all the notes effortlessly. That was never a problem with her. What grated on Reyer's nerves was her style. Everything she sang—happy arias, sad arias, dramatic arias, and everything inbetween—was sung loudly, flashily, and adorned with every kind of vocal embellishment possible. He knew that she sang that way to remind everyone that she was better than them, but really, she had no sensitivity to the emotions in her roles. And the one time Reyer had tried to make that clear to her had ended in disaster. Well, not everyone could be a singer _and_ an actor…  
  
"Well done, Signora, thank you," Reyer said dryly when Carlotta finished the aria, a self-satisfied smile on her face. He flipped through his score, deliberately overlooking Hannibal's reunion with Elissa, and stopped at the Act One finale. "Signor Piangi," he said, eyeing the man, "have you looked over the mountain song?" The 'mountain song' referred to Hannibal's decision to cross the mountains with his elephants.  
  
Piangi nodded, searching his own score for the appropriate place.  
  
"Good." For once, the man had taken initiative. "I will give you a two-bar introduction, then you will come in." Reyer fingered Piangi's starting note on the piano, then began playing the accompaniment with one hand while cueing in and conducting the tenor with the other. That particular trick had taken him a long time to perfect, but now he did it without even pausing to think. Piangi sang well enough—his was not an outstanding voice, merely very good, but deserving of principal tenor nonetheless, despite his tendency to blunder through his roles. He had been principal tenor almost as long as Reyer had been chief répétiteur.  
  
Thus the afternoon rehearsal passed in such a manner, routine and rather boring, with Reyer having to raise his voice only a minimum of ten times, until the last half-hour. Deciding that enough was enough, Reyer finally took on Hannibal's entrance into Carthage again. First he worked with the chorus, who did fine for the amount of time they had been working on the music. Carlotta and Piangi needed no additional instruction for the time being, and Piangi even remembered to say 'Rome' correctly. He saved the ballet girls for last.  
  
"Since I know you've all been looking over your scores"—this said very sarcastically, for the group of them had been surreptitiously gossiping while not otherwise occupied—"I think it due time to rehearse your lines. Please look at Hannibal's entrance into Carthage." Reyer flipped to the appropriate page in the score and fingered the starting note on the piano. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Carlotta gathering herself together expectantly, smirk already in place, and silently cursed the diva for what had to the millionth time since he had known her. _Here we go again…_ "I will give you a one-bar introduction. Do try to come in on the appropriate beat for once."  
  
Reyer held up a hand to prepare them; in the back row the dancers sat up expectantly, doing their best to paste alert expressions on their perky faces—all but the little shy one. She kept her eyes glued to the score. Closing his eyes briefly to compose himself, Reyer played the opening bar and then brought his hand down in a cue for the second measure. The ballet girls sang adequately enough for the most part, and they made it through two entire verses of song without overt objection from Carlotta. That peace was not to last long, however.  
  
"A travesty," Carlotta said after the second verse, in the momentary pause of music while Reyer searched for the next verse the ballet was required to sing. He could sense she was homing in on her newfound victim again. "A travesty that croaking toad was allowed to graduate from conservatory, much less sing at the Paris Opera. It defames me. Where have the national institutions gone? I will speak to the manager. He will not refuse me. He—"  
  
"Signora," Reyer interjected slowly, and at the deadly tone of his voice she was obliged to stop and look at him. The quiet hatred burning in his eyes was enough to give even the most pompous prima donna pause. "I am tired of your outrageous childishness. If you do not cease behaving in such an unbecoming manner, I will be only too happy to forcibly remove you from this rehearsal."  
  
There was a silence in which everyone held a collective breath, waiting for Carlotta's reaction. Very seldomly was Carlotta ever challenged in such a manner, and even then it was usually Reyer who dared to do so. The diva stared at him for a long moment, the fury in her eyes matching his own; then she drew herself up very straight in her chair. "You cannot speak to me that way," she hissed in a low voice.  
  
"Of course I can!" Reyer snapped with equal venom. "This is _my_ rehearsal. Behave yourself or leave."  
  
Carlotta glared murder at him but did not deign to reply. Reyer slammed his score shut with a savage sigh. He'd had enough for one day; perhaps tomorrow would be easier. "Ballet, thank you. Cast, you are free to go. You." He pointed at the shy little dancer in the back. "If you would, remain behind for a moment. That is all."  
  
Everyone got up as one to leave, whispering to each other excitedly, still in awe over the just-witnessed confrontation. Carlotta once again wore her triumphant smirk, though her eyes still blazed; oddly enough, Reyer got the impression she was getting what she wanted. No doubt she expected him to give the little dancer a severe dressing-down. The very last thing Reyer wanted was to be duped into one of the diva's schemes, but what was he supposed to do? The child wouldn't improve without lessons—  
  
_Lessons._  
  
That was it! He could give her lessons, just a few, and perhaps the dancer's voice would improve. Carlotta would stop complaining, and his job would be made easier. It seemed so simple a solution, he was glad to have thought of it. Satisfied with himself, Reyer arranged the music on the piano with a less violent hand, preparing for the next day's rehearsal.  
  
"You wanted to see me, monsieur?"  
  
Reyer looked up. The final stragglers were just leaving; a blessed quiet had descended upon the rehearsal room. In front of him, the little dancer was hesitantly approaching the piano with an air of extreme nervousness. He wondered if perhaps she was ill. Her face was very pale, with dark circles under the eyes, and she could stand to gain a few pounds. But she was a dancer, after all, and they were universally known for practically starving themselves to maintain their figures. Vain little sprites, every last one of them.  
  
"Yes," he replied, nodding once and gesturing for her to sit on the piano bench if she so wished. "I do not want to take up your time, mademoiselle, but this cannot go on for much longer. What is your name?"  
  
The girl had settled herself nervously at the piano, and did not look at Reyer; perhaps she was afraid of him. That pleased him somewhat. Fear was good—it tended to keep the populace more or less in line. He was not unaware of his reputation as a tyrant. "Christine Daaé, monsieur."  
  
Reyer folded his arms across his chest and regarded her sternly. "Mademoiselle Daaé, have you any idea why Signora Giudicelli is using you as an excuse to disrupt rehearsal?"  
  
"None at all!" Christine burst out, and Reyer blinked in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. "I have never spoken to her or about her. I go out of my way to _avoid_ her. I don't know why she torments me so—I'm not a threat to her at all."  
  
It had to have been the most words the girl had strung together in one sentence since arriving at the Opera. "We shall see," Reyer said, fixing his eyes on her appraisingly. "Mademoiselle, have you ever considered singing lessons?"  
  
Christine swallowed, her face flushing pink, and finally looked up at him for a fraction of a second. "I _am_ a singer, Monsieur Reyer. I studied voice at the conservatory. But it seems I was a better dancer than singer, and I was placed in the corps de ballet instead of the Opera chorus."  
  
Long-repressed memories of his own career displacement floated up from the depths of Reyer's mind to taunt him; quickly he blocked them out. This new piece of information interested him greatly. If this Daaé was already a singer, then perhaps she _did_—unknowingly, of course—present a threat to Carlotta's seemingly unshakable position as Opera prima donna. If the diva herself thought so, then Daaé must have some real talent she somehow managed to keep secret from everyone. Suddenly the mental image of the mighty Carlotta toppling from grace was so delicious he almost laughed out loud. What could possibly be sweeter than he, Reyer, Carlotta's oldest enemy, being the orchestrator of her downfall?  
  
Reyer knew then that he _had_ to teach Christine Daaé. He simply couldn't pass up such an opportunity to see Carlotta disgraced. Besides, if she were to achieve fame under his tutelage, it would be like the fame he'd never had a chance to achieve himself.  
  
He simply _had_ to.  
  
Leaning forward slightly, Reyer fixed an even firmer gaze on Christine's unnaturally pale face. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I do believe we could _make_ you a threat to La Carlotta." He paused, wondering how to word what he wanted to propose. "If you would allow me to work with you, that is."  
  
Christine merely stared at him in astonishment, a mixture of awed emotions crossing her face; what little color was present in her face now drained away. Reyer raised an eyebrow in query. "Well?"  
  
She exhaled loudly. "Monsieur—do you truly mean that?" she stammered. "That would be—I couldn't possibly afford to pay you—"  
  
Reyer waved a hand dismissively in slight irritation; he found her extreme state of shock mildly annoying. "No fee," he replied. "I will not make you pay. I am only offering out of the kindness of my heart." _And a little else besides_, he added silently. "Would that suit you?"  
  
Christine managed to compose herself somewhat, a little color coming back into her cheeks, gazing at Reyer with something akin to barely concealed worship. "Monsieur, I had no idea you had it within you—" She stopped abruptly, stricken. "Forgive me; that was very rude. I would like it very much if you would teach me."  
  
"Good. It's settled, then." Reyer nodded briefly, the barest hint of a smile appearing on his lips. "Please see me as early as possible tomorrow and we will work out a schedule then. I do not want to keep you any longer."  
  
Sensing the unspoken dismissal, Christine stood up to leave, gathering her cloak.  
  
"One more thing," Reyer added.  
  
Christine paused in the middle of putting on her cloak to look at him, a kind of newfound admiration in her eyes.  
  
"These lessons must be kept secret," he said. "Speak of them to no one. I can't have every blessed chorus girl in this place begging me for lessons as well, and I certainly cannot be accused of preferential treatment. I am only doing this to keep Carlotta quiet, and no reason else."  
  
Christine actually smiled, an expression which did wonders for the unusally sad cast of her face. "I won't tell, I promise." She swept her cloak on. "Good night, Monsieur Reyer."  
  
Reyer inclined his head stiffly. "Likewise, Mademoiselle Daaé."  
  
Christine exited, a spring in her step that had not been present previously, leaving Reyer alone once more to contemplate in silence. _I'll teach her,_ he vowed to the silence of the rehearsal room. _I'll teach her to sing so beautifully that Lefevre won't be able to help but replace Carlotta with her, and then it will be_ my _turn to laugh…_   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
Before leaving that night Reyer went to see Madame Giry.  
  
"'Out of the kindness of my heart'?" The stately woman's lips curved in an amused smile. "I would hardly think you have a heart left, dear Reyer."  
  
Reyer glared at her. They were sitting in the closet of an office the Opera had allowed the ballet mistress, waiting for Meg to return from closing up the ballet rehearsal rooms. It was late for a non-performance day, nearly nine-thirty at night. Since both Reyer and Madame Giry usually remained at the Opera until such hours, a ritual had slowly grown up between them over the years where one would wait on the other, and then Reyer would see Madame Giry—often accompanied by Meg these days—safely home. It had also become a ritual for Madame Giry to kindly chide Reyer over his less-than-sunny disposition, a practice he utterly despised.  
  
"If I didn't have a heart, madame, I daresay I would never have offered to teach her in the first place." He cleared his throat irritably. "Enough about me. What can you tell me about Christine Daaé?"  
  
Madame Giry thought in silence for a moment. "As you no doubt saw, she is very young, I would think about twenty years old," she began. "Her native country is Sweden. She was brought to France with her father, a gifted violinist, when she was just a child. Now the father is dead and she lives by herself not very far from here. That is what my Meg has told me. Meg is her only friend."  
  
"What about her voice?" Reyer persisted.  
  
Madame Giry took another moment to reflect. "Meg has said that Christine is a better singer than a dancer has any right to be. That is all I can say."  
  
Reyer leaned back in his chair. "I have reason to believe mademoiselle has promise. I will be meeting with her tomorrow to see what time of day would be agreeable for a lesson. I assume you will want to be informed."  
  
Madame Giry nodded slowly, the amused smile returning to her face. "Monsieur Reyer, offering to assist a fellow human being and expecting nothing in return. It's unheard of. You never go out of your way for anyone. What makes Christine Daaé so special?"  
  
_Revenge,_ thought Reyer silently, his expression stony. He did not like to be reminded of his less savory personality traits. "La Carlotta has been disrupting rehearsals to torment Mademoiselle Daaé. I merely thought that perhaps a little tutoring was in order to restore peace."  
  
There was a short silence in which Madame Giry regarded Reyer thoughtfully and he tried not to squirm like a nervous schoolboy under her gaze. Every time she watched him in such a manner—and it was more often than he liked—it made him profoundly uncomfortable. Madame Giry had been ballet mistress since before Reyer had become a member of the chorus, and as such she had witnessed the entire span of his Opera career—including the portions he wished to forget.  
  
"It still pains you, doesn't it?" she asked finally.  
  
Reyer stiffened, straightening up in the chair. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded warily.  
  
Madame Giry was still watching him steadily; the faint smile was still there but it had now morphed into something approaching compassionate melancholy. "La Carlotta causing all that trouble. Your being rehired as chorus master. How long has it been, Reyer, eight or nine years? After all this time it still pains you."  
  
Reyer stood abruptly. "This conversation is over," he said flatly. "I will be down in the grand foyer. Please tell Mademoiselle Giry that I am ready to leave when you are." Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the office.  
  
Madame Giry watched him go with a shake of her head. "He will never change," she murmured to herself, standing and following Reyer's path to go and fetch Meg.   
  
  



	2. Teacher of Music Part Two

Teacher of Music - Part Two

Teacher of Music, Part Two  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "She's been taking lessons from a great teacher."  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene One    
  
  
The next day dawned bright and clear. Reyer was in a foul mood.  
  
To be fair, Reyer was nearly always in a foul mood, but today it was more black than usual. The chirping birds along the avenues infuriated him. Even though his home was a good distance from the Opera Reyer preferred to walk in the mornings, but today he wished for a cab. Or at least a sack of stones to throw in the trees. Or perhaps earplugs. The sheer _cheerfulness_ of the atmosphere was disgusting. What had he to be cheery about? A long day of rehearsal and Carlotta stretched before him, nothing but crowd control and Carlotta's endless reminders that he was not fit for even a chorus master's job. That… and he was supposed to meet with Mademoiselle Daaé today to arrange her lessons. Reyer's mood improved a fraction of a notch. Well. Perhaps one bright spot.  
  
Entering the Opera House at last, Reyer ascended the Grand Staircase—he had long ago lost his capacity for gawking at it—and walked the long corridors to his office. It was only a shade bigger than Madame Giry's. Although the door was closed the way he had left it, he was surprised to see light shining from underneath it. Brow furrowed in annoyance and confusion, Reyer twisted the handle and opened the door—to find a guilty-looking Christine Daaé perched nervously on the edge of the overstuffed armchair Reyer kept in a corner of the office.  
  
"You're early," he said gruffly to mask his surprise, taking off his coat—but leaving his trademark bowler hat on—as he retreated behind his desk. "Have you nothing else better to do in the morning than break into peoples' offices?"  
  
"I wanted to see you before ballet rehearsal began," Christine said timidly, looking appropriately chagrined. It was eight o'clock in the morning, early enough for the ballet rats but too early for the other artistes. The singers never came in before nine-thirty if they could help it. Her explanation suited Reyer enough; at least she was eager to work. He folded his hands on the desktop and peered across at her.  
  
"Very well. Mademoiselle, when are you not in regular rehearsal?"  
  
Christine thought on that for a moment, staring at her hands in her lap. "I have ballet in the morning and early afternoon, a few hours each, now that rehearsal for _Hannibal_ has begun," she said slowly. "Chorus rehearsal in between. I have very little free time, monsieur."  
  
Reyer sighed. He hoped this would not be difficult. Oh, if she were just a singer instead of a dancer, this would be easier… "Well, what little time you _do_ have free can be put to good use," he replied as patiently as he could.  
  
Christine was silent again for a moment. "I have perhaps an hour free in the afternoon. I could come in early or late if it—"  
  
"Absolutely not," Reyer interjected. The thought of earlier mornings and longer hours rankled him. And he had the Girys to see off at night. "You will be too tired to practice properly. It will have to be in the afternoon. Is this agreeable?"  
  
Christine nodded.  
  
Reyer gazed off into space for a moment, thinking. "The rehearsal rooms are out of the question, he murmured, mostly to himself. "My office is in a part of the Opera that is frequented too often…" He began drumming his fingers on the desktop. After a minute the ditty slowed, and he eyeballed Christine again. "When exactly is your free hour?"  
  
"When everyone is out for lunch," she replied.  
  
Reyer thumped the desktop lightly with his fist. "Well, there we have it. We can hold your lessons then. The smaller rehearsal room—you know the one—will have to do. I would like to start today if possible. Bring a piece of music you are familiar with and we will begin from there." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Agreed?"  
  
"Agreed," Christine acknowledged.  
  
Reyer inclined his head towards the door. "You may go. I know Madame Giry does not like to be kept waiting."  
  
"I know. Thank you very much again, monsieur," Christine said with a timid but genuine smile, standing and leaving as quietly as always. Reyer smiled to himself as she left. His mood was now, inexplicably, much improved. This should turn out to be very interesting indeed…   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
The morning rehearsal went by smoothly; Carlotta was her usual imperious self but refrained from blatantly halting practice this time around. After dismissing the company Reyer picked up some music off the piano and walked down the corridor to the smaller rehearsal room, which was more fit for one-on-one instruction and practice with small groups. It was empty for the moment; Christine had disappeared to places unknown at present, which suited Reyer just fine. Placing the music he held on the corner of the rehearsal piano, Reyer seated himself on the bench and played a few experimental chords. As much as he secretly enjoyed his occupation behind the piano he sorely missed singing for a living. As a result, he often liked to sing the old operatic songs when no one was around to hear him—he got enough ridicule from Carlotta as it was. He was a little bit rusty but not completely out of practice; this time he picked the sequence from _Hannibal_ that plagued Piangi so and sang it softly under his breath, picking out the notes on the piano as he went. Really, it was embarrassing. In Reyer's mind he could sing it better than that overweight, fawning little man. At least _he_ could pronounce 'Rome' correctly! Reyer knew _exactly_ how Piangi had come to be so favored in the manager's eyes, and it rankled him; that wasn't to say the man didn't deserve principal tenor, but really, there were others—  
  
A shadow appeared in Reyer's peripheral vision; startled, his knees hit the underside of the piano, nearly causing the keyboard lid to come crashing down on his fingers. Equally startled by his reaction, Christine jumped back a step, clutching a thin sheaf of music to her chest.  
  
"_Knock!_" Reyer fairly roared at her, furious and a little embarrassed at being caught daydreaming at the piano. "Make a noise! Do a pirouette! Do anything you like! But do _not_ sneak up on me like that again! Is that clear?"  
  
Christine blinked at him with wide eyes, swallowing and stammering, "I'm sorry, monsieur, truly—I didn't mean to startle you—"  
  
Reyer turned his attention back to the piano, fuming, lifting the lid again and shifting into a more comfortable position on the bench. He might as well have had a storm cloud hovering above his head, for all the black mood he was in again. Had the entire world lost its sense of etiquette?  
  
"You have a nice voice," Christine ventured weakly.  
  
Reyer's fury became so great he did not immediately reply for fear of doing something he might later regret. He had said and done many insulting things in his life, but he had yet to hit a woman. Well, what did she know? Daae must not have a very good ear if she thought _he_ had a good voice—if he hadn't been able to make it in the Opera chorus—  
  
But that was only self-torture. He knew talent or lack thereof wasn't the true reason he had been dismissed, but reality was reality: no matter how one looked at it, he hadn't been good enough to last.  
  
That was in the past, however; no use dwelling on it at the moment. Reyer held out a hand in Christine's direction without looking at her. "Your music, please," he said shortly.  
  
Silently, Christine handed it to him.  
  
"I know you have warmed up since we have already been rehearsing," he continued in the same tone. "Come over here and stand in front of the piano where I can see you." He looked at the music Christine had given him. "The Jewel Song?"  
  
The skepticism quite evident in Reyer's voice didn't seem to dishearten Christine much; she merely stood as tall as she could and nodded, a little nervously. "I won a prize singing it at the conservatory."  
  
Reyer sighed. Well, wasn't that lovely. She couldn't be too horrible a singer, then… but if she was, then he supposed he could always tune her out. He had no great faith in the conservatory. "Very well," he said. "I will give you a one-bar introduction—doubtlessly you already know the place." He considered for a moment. "I would like you to sing the entire song."  
  
Again, Christine only nodded, visibly nervous now, and gathered herself together in preparation. Reyer glanced one last time at the music before him, and began to play.  
  
And then Christine began to sing.  
  
Long after the final chord and Christine's voice had died away, Reyer sat in silence. Christine didn't know what to make of it. He hadn't outright condemned her, or praised her—though she certainly hadn't expected _that_ of him. He hadn't even looked at her. He just simply sat and stared at the music in front of him without moving an inch. Christine was on the verge of asking if something was the matter when Reyer finally spoke. "You are too quiet," he said, "and your breathing is a little lacking." He looked through some of the music he had; Christine noted with relief that he had _not_criticized her voice itself. After a moment he stood and placed an open score on the top of the piano, turning it towards Christine so she could see it. "Look over this, please."  
  
Christine stepped forward to pick up the score, her eyes growing wide in surprise. It was turned to Elissa's great aria from Act Three of _Hannibal_.  
  
"You want me to sing this?" she breathed.  
  
Reyer looked at her peevishly. "Well, don't just stand there like a gaping fish, go on and look at it. We haven't got all day."  
  
Obediently, Christine stepped away from the piano with the score, skimming over it while Reyer played some of the melody from memory. It was a beautiful song, not too difficult for a well-trained singer and certainly not as grandiose as Carlotta made it out to be. She was utterly stupefied as to why Reyer should have given her this music so soon. It was rather irregular. Christine wasn't sure what she had expected, but being handed music for the leading role in _Hannibal_ certainly wasn't it.  
  
From his place behind the piano, Reyer cleared his throat loudly to get Christine's attention. "Try the first verse, mademoislle, if you please. I will give you two bars' introduction. Stand up a little straighter—thank you." Again, from memory, Reyer began playing the melody, nodding his head sharply as a cue for Christine to come in if she wasn't sure when to.  
  
Christine began singing uncertainly, nervously. "Think of me, think of me fondly—"  
  
"Louder," Reyer said.  
  
"—when we've said goodbye…" Christine upped her volume a notch. "Remember me every so often—"  
  
"Louder," Reyer repeated, continuing to play.  
  
Christine stared at him in mild irritation, nearly missing a beat, and Reyer almost grinned. Good, she was getting angry. "Promise me you'll try… On that day, that not-so-distant day, when you are far away and free—"  
  
"Louder!" Reyer repeated again, almost gleefully, and Christine's face flushed crimson, but she apparently lacked the nerve to say anything sharp. Reyer stopped playing and peered at her with an evaluating eye. "Your problem, mademoiselle, is that you are too meek. You have no confidence. You will never make it in the world of opera if you do not gain a little backbone."  
  
Christine's face was burning, but she said nothing. She knew in her heart that Reyer was right, but she was not about to admit it to herself. How dare he say such things to her! And yet, he was her teacher now, not just the testy chorus master, and he was only giving her advice in his customary tactless way… Still, she felt awfully indignant. _And well I should!_ she thought heatedly. _That man is incapable of even one kind word!_  
  
Reyer watched the emotions crossing her face with something akin to amusement. "Now," he said after what he felt was an appropriate length of silence, "with that in mind"—he raised his eyebrows—"would you care to try again?"  
  
Christine sighed heavily, willing the fire in her cheeks to dissipate. "I won't let you down," she said. "I promise."  
  
Reyer gave her a faintly amused smile from behind the piano. "'Promise' is a strong word, Mademoiselle Daaé." He played the two-bar introduction without further comment; Christine took a deep breath and threw herself into the song, vowing silently to herself that she would never again do anything to give Reyer cause to call her weak.  
  
Playing the accompaniment this time, Reyer smiled to himself as Christine resumed her singing with more gusto than he had guessed she might have. If he could find a way to keep her this irritated at him all the time, then he had a feeling her lessons would be _extremely_ productive…   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
"You seem pleased," Madame Giry said that night as she, Meg, and Reyer left the Opera. "Was La Carlotta more docile than usual in rehearsal today?"  
  
"That she was," Reyer confirmed, stepping out onto the sidewalk, eyes in search of a cab. "But rather, I was pleased with Mademoiselle Daaé's lesson today."  
  
"_You're_ giving Christine _lessons_?" Meg asked in surprise.  
  
Reyer turned to look at her sternly, but there was a slight tinge of affection in his next words; he had known Meg since she was a child. "You hold your tongue, you chattering monkey. This isn't for public consumption."  
  
Meg put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him in mock outrage. "Really, monsieur, there's no need for such language. I won't tell a soul."  
  
Reyer barked a short, derisive laugh as his raised his hand to flag down a cab. "Now, Mademoiselle Giry, I know you dancers are all alike—all gossip and no brains. I fail to see how your poor mother can stand it." A cab pulled to a stop in front of them and Reyer reached to open the door of the carriage.  
  
"Where to?" the driver asked.  
  
Reyer gave the man the names of both streets and helped Meg and Madame Giry into the carriage, then climbed in after them. The cab started off at a brisk trot. "Mademoiselle Daaé's lesson went well?" Madame Giry asked.  
  
"Better than I had initially thought it would," Reyer replied musingly, folding his hands in his lap. "If I could cure her of her damnable shyness I'm sure much progress could be made."  
  
"But _why_ are you giving Christine lessons?" Meg asked curiously. "She has a beautiful voice."  
  
"That is all well and good, Mademoiselle Giry, but a beautiful voice will not get you anywhere if no one can hear it," Reyer retorted. "I offered to give her lessons in the interest of restoring peace to rehearsal."  
  
Meg grimaced. "La Carlotta?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"I cannot stand that loud, overdressed toad," Meg muttered wrathfully.  
  
"Now, Megan." Madame Giry put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "It is wicked to speak ill of others."  
  
Meg put on a pout, and pointed a finger at Reyer. "It never stopped him before."  
  
Reyer glared at her. "Enough from you, mademoiselle!" he exclaimed. "Your mother raised you better than this. How I choose to address others is none of your concern, you saucy little sprite!"  
  
Meg grinned triumphantly, eyes twinkling in merriment despite her fatigue, and Reyer knew he had been trapped. She loved to goad him; it had been a favorite pastime of hers for years. And even though he complained and called her names, Meg knew he secretly enjoyed the ribbing.  
  
Sighing, Reyer briefly raised his eyes heavenward. "I see you have caught me again, Mademoiselle Giry. I concede defeat."  
  
Meg cheerfully steered the conversation back to its original subject. "But what do you think of Christine? Do you think she could replace La Carlotta?"  
  
Reyer looked at her strangely. "I didn't say that," he said, turning his head to stare out the window of the cab.  
  
"But do you?" Meg persisted.  
  
Reyer did not reply for a long moment. Despite her weak volume, despite her lack of nerve, Christine Daaé had the most perfect voice he had ever heard in his entire career. Perfect tone, perfect pitch, perfect diction—she could reach every note with ease, and with none of the overblown self-confidence of Carlotta. It was refreshing and an utter pleasure to hear. She was simply too _quiet!_ It was now quite clear to him why the diva held a grudge against Christine; obviously Carlotta had overheard the girl singing and, recognizing her faultless voice and more youthful looks, realized what would happen should Christine's talent ever become known. Well, Carlotta's ploy had backfired. Now he, Reyer, knew of the talent she had worked to suppress, and he was going to make damn sure Christine would be able to go on for Carlotta at a moment's notice--teach her every note of all Carlotta's roles. He hesitated to call her an unofficial understudy. Christine was more like… an unknown element. A very talented element, a wild card that no one but he and two others knew of.  
  
"Perhaps," Reyer replied finally, distantly.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
"So you're taking lessons from Monsieur Reyer?" Meg whispered to Christine during company rehearsal the next day.  
  
Christine's eyes widened in shock; quickly she glanced towards the front of the room, where Reyer was berating the men's chorus for missing notes. "Whoever told you that?" she hissed in terror.  
  
Meg put a reassuring hand on Christine's arm. "Don't worry, Christine, he told me himself. Monsieur Reyer and my mother are sort of friends. He sees us home every night."  
  
"I didn't think that man _had_ any friends," Christine muttered darkly. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment as she recalled the previous day's lesson. That hadn't started off on the right foot at all…  
  
"Oh, he's not as bad as he seems to be," Meg replied, furtively glancing at the other dancers to make sure they weren't listening in. "When I was younger, before I became a member of the corps de ballet, he used to give me sweets during company rehearsals—he said they were to keep me quiet so I wouldn't disturb Mother. Now that I'm older he insults me instead of bribing me to shut up. He just has a bad temper, that's all."  
  
"No!" came the disgusted exclamation from the front of the room, "no, no, _no!_" There was the overexaggerated thump of piano keys as Reyer banged out a line of melody on the weathered instrument. "_This_ is the pitch! Can you not _hear_ yourselves?!"  
  
Meg chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. "At least it's not Signor Piangi this time," she joked weakly. Bad temper indeed!  
  
Christine watched Reyer's outburst at the male chorus with a faintly appalled expression on her face. "He called me spineless, Meg!" she whispered.  
  
"Well, you are!" Meg whispered back cheerfully, giggling softly at her friend's aghast look. "You're so quiet all the time, Christine, you're always afraid to have any fun! You'll never be a prima donna if you don't get a little nerve!"  
  
"Hush!" Christine hissed, her eyes sad. "I'll never be a famous singer. Not while La Carlotta is still alive." _I'm sorry, Papa,_ she thought dejectedly. _I've failed you… why hasn't the Angel of Music you promised come yet? It's been three years… where is he?_  
  
"Of course you will! You've got a beautiful voice."  
  
Christine glanced nervously towards the front of the room. "Does… does Monsieur Reyer think so?"  
  
"Yes. He told me so himself!" Meg said warmly. Well. It wasn't an outright lie, more like a twisting of facts, but if it bolstered Christine's nonexistent self-esteem, then she was willing to fudge things a little. Besides, he'd all _but_ said Christine had a beautiful voice. Surely he must think so.  
  
Christine's pale face lit up with guarded delight. "He does? Honestly? Why—"  
  
There was a loud crash and a flurry of exclamations from the vicinity of the male chorus; Reyer was shouting something at the top of his lungs. One of the singers was picking himself up off the floor, and everyone's seats were in disarray. Carlotta's piercing laugh rose above the hubbub. Meg and Christine craned their necks, trying to see what had happened.  
  
One of the ballet girls was laughing hysterically. "I cannot believe it!" she cried, nearly doubled over in mirth. "Monsieur Reyer actually threw his score at them!"  
  
"And it is only the third day of rehearsal!" her friend added gleefully.  
  
"We must be next!" another chimed in.  
  
Meg and Christine looked at each other with expressions of mingled amusement and horror. Then Meg burst into a fit of giggles.  
  
"I hope your lesson goes well today, Christine!" she whispered , laughing merrily.   
  
  



	3. Teacher of Music Part Three

Teacher of Music - Part Three

Teacher of Music, Part Three  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "Until you stop these things happening, this thing does not happen!"  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene One    
  
  
The next three months passed quickly for Reyer, a whirlwind of endless rehearsals, meetings and lessons. During the latter Christine progressed splendidly; the rehearsals and meetings he didn't particularly care to think about if he could avoid it. He never failed to delight in pushing Christine to the breaking point of her temper during those lessons, pleased when she at last grew bold—or furious—enough to at least half-heartedly snap back at him. It was an improvement over the lifelessness she had usually displayed during her earlier time at the Opera. Reyer's goading always had the desired effect in that it inspired Christine to sing louder and with more confidence, though in time she was able to do so without him having to insult her. The results were more fantastic than Reyer had dared to imagine. Before her lessons Christine had been merely a very good singer, but whatever inner muse was stoking the fire Christine did not normally possess when not singing had transformed her into a soprano of the highest order. During the course of her lessons there were occasionally times when Reyer--in a rare moment of romantic sentiment--fancied that if one could hear the angels sing, then they would sound like Christine. Her voice was simply that astonishing.  
  
Carlotta Giudicelli couldn't hold a candle to Christine, and it inflamed Reyer to no end that Christine's incredible talent had to be kept a secret from everyone but Meg and Madame Giry. It was infuriating to watch Carlotta parade about in her finery, day after day, with her loud, trilling, offensive voice, while a much more deserving singer had to remain unnoticed in the corps de ballet! But while Reyer couldn't change that sad fact of life, there were things he _could_ do, and so he taught Christine the entirety of Carlotta's role until she could sing Elissa in her sleep. Just in case. One never knew what could happen, in opera. Reyer preferred to think of it as insurance.  
  
He drove Christine mercilessly, but she never complained, not even when they were forced to hold her lessons in the evenings as opening night drew near and she became almost sick from exhaustion. Reyer began seeing her home as well, in addition to Madame Giry and Meg. It became customary for him to force Christine to eat something, _anything_, so she wouldn't starve herself to death by practicing instead of eating. Often he sent Meg to stand over her and make sure she ate. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" he would exclaim in exasperation, to which Christine would penitently shake her head and do as she was told, dragging herself off in search of nourishment.  
  
Carlotta never completely abandoned her scheming against Christine; she would make scathing remarks about the dancer when the diva knew she was within earshot, pointedly remind Christine of her place in the company, and laugh spitefully at her during rehearsals. The taunting often drove Christine to tears, and it made Reyer's blood boil—in addition to being a cunning little witch Carlotta had no manners whatsoever!—but there was nothing he could do or say in public besides admonish the diva for her lack of etiquette. He only hoped Carlotta could somehow be indisposed and they could all be rid of her, but he knew it would never happen because Carlotta never missed a performance.  
  
But as it turned out, he got his wish after all…  
  
It had all boiled down to the last dress rehearsal of _Hannibal_. Lefévre had been holed up in his office all week with two gentlemen no one seemed to know, fueling more rumors that the man was seeking to retire. Last-minute costume additions were still being made, the set still being finished in time for the gala performance that evening. The ballet still did not have their act completely together, Piangi was still mispronouncing everything, and Carlotta was as always in perfect health. To Reyer prospects of a good performance seemed rather bleak.  
  
The dress rehearsal in progress, Carlotta had just finished her solo cadenza with the false severed head sent from Hannibal, and now the chorus was pouring in, along with the ballet. Reyer was standing just offstage with the score, following along and conducting to himself with one hand; he spied Christine among the ballet dancers and frowned momentarily. She looked paler than usual, and he wondered if she had been up all night again. But no time to wonder—Piangi was coming on. The tenor strutted to center stage, full of self-importance, threw back his cape with a flourish, and began singing.  
  
"Sad to return to find the land we love threatened once more by Roma's—"  
  
Reyer saw red. The man was doing it _again!_ "No, no, _no!_" he shouted, walking rapidly out onto the stage and making a beeline for Piangi. Rehearsal effectively shuddered to a halt; the wardrobe mistress, sensing a window of opportunity, scuttled out after Reyer, her mouth full of pins. "Signor Piangi, if you _please! Rome_. We say _Rome_, not _Roma!_"  
  
The tenor blinked at him—rather stupidly, Reyer thought. "Si, si, si," Piangi said quickly, eager to please, "Rom-a. Rom-a—"  
  
"_No._" Reyer sharply waved a hand. "Rooooooommmme."  
  
"Rommmm-a," Piangi repeated.  
  
"Mmmmmm!" Reyer snapped.  
  
Piangi shook his head in frustration. "Roooommme… is very difficult for me!" he exclaimed, and to Reyer it sounded like the man was overexaggerating his own accent.  
  
Reyer curtly flipped through the score, showing Piangi the pages. "How many times do you say 'Rome' in this opera, Signor? Are you going to mispronounce it every time?" He snapped the score shut. "Learn to make it not difficult by the performance this evening."  
  
The rehearsal had descended into chaos, with everyone talking at once; one fawning voice was rising above them all with irritating cheeriness. It was Lefévre, the manager, walking right into the middle of rehearsal with two finely-dressed strangers, getting in the way as usual. Reyer stared daggers at him. Could the man not see there was a rehearsal in progress?! Leaving Piangi to his bungling, Reyer walked around the rear of the now-halted trio and stood pointedly next to Lefévre, waiting for him to get the hint. One of the two strangers—the taller one, the one that had hair—nodded at him in silent greeting, but Reyer ignored him. Lefévre kept right on talking, oblivious to Reyer's presence, as he always seemed to be. It was on purpose. The two of them had never gotten fabulously along.  
  
Finally, Reyer cleared his throat as obnoxiously as he possibly could. "_Excuse_ me, Monsieur Lefévre," he cut in impatiently through clenched teeth, "we are _rehearsing_. If you wouldn't mind _waiting_ a moment?"  
  
Lefévre finally turned to look at him, rather placidly, putting on a show for his companions, but Reyer could see the dislike in the man's expression. Well, if he wouldn't get in the _way_ all the time… "My apologies, Monsieur Reyer," Lefevre replied pleasantly. "Proceed… proceed."  
  
Reyer gave him a curt nod. "_Thank_ you, monsieur." Moving away and muttering curses under his breath, he flipped his score book back open and slammed his heel down twice on the stage to get everyone's attention. "From 'sad to return'!" he said loudly as the chorus moved hurriedly back into position. Reyer waved an arm at Piangi, retreating to the sidelines. "Signor."  
  
The ballet girls prostrated themselves on the floor and Carlotta assumed an air of lovesick anticipation; Piangi threw back his cape again. "Sad to return to find the land we love," he sang, walking forward to take Carlotta's hand, "threatened once more by Rooooommme's farreachinggrasp." On 'Rome' he turned his head to look back rather nastily at Reyer, who glared murder at him. _If he does that at the performance tonight, I'll…_  
  
The ballet took over to dance a short number. Reyer, still keeping the beat, noticed Lefévre and his cronies _still_ in the way; Meg nearly pirouetted right into the tall gentleman, with Christine barely avoiding the same mistake. Reyer had just opened his mouth to snap at them when, from across the stage, Madame Giry banged her time-keeping stick on the boards.  
  
"Gentlemen, would you kindly stand to one side?"  
  
Reyer rolled his eyes and continued following the ballet. Imbeciles, all of them.  
  
A moment later Madame Giry banged her stick again. "Christine Daaé—concentrate, girl!"  
  
Reyer quickly looked over at Christine, who was now very red about the ears as she went through her moves. She had fallen out of step. Reyer had observed over the past few weeks that she was by no means a talented dancer, only an adequate one, and he wondered for what had to be the hundredth time what fool had placed her in the corps de ballet instead of the chorus. He watched her more closely; not only was she paler than usual, her movements were a hair sluggish and there were faint circles under her eyes. Well, that was it, Reyer decided. After rehearsal he would pull Christine aside and give her a lecture about practicing to all hours of the night. _You'll put yourself into an early grave_, he'd said before, and he'd say it again. Really, she was taking 'dedication' too far.  
  
Then the ballet was over and everyone was singing again, welcoming Hannibal's elephants. Reyer watched apprehensively as the giant mechanical elephant was wheeled in. There hadn't been any trouble with the beast yet, but knowing the Opera's track record for calamity, it would find a way to break down in the middle of the actual performance.  
  
And if it didn't stop on its own, then Piangi would surely break it, Reyer mused. The tenor was required to climb the thing, and he was doing just that now, or at least attempting to. He was barely succeeding—he nearly slipped and fell once, but somehow managed to get in place by the final note of the song… just barely. Reyer put his head in his free hand. Good God, he could see it now, Piangi making a fool of himself in front of all of Parisian high society…  
  
Now that the song was over everyone was getting up and congratulating themselves on a job well done; Lefévre was vainly trying to quiet everyone down. Obviously he thought he had something _important_ to say. Reyer disregarded the man's efforts and extended a hand to help one of the dancers to her feet, then turned to two singers playing attendents. "Next time," he said to them, looking at his score, "not so loud when the elephant comes in, you're sticking out of the ensemble, but on your own entrance be a little more—"  
  
There was the sharp retort of Madame Giry's stick upon the boards of the stage, and everyone immediately shut up. They all turned to look at Lefévre. "Thank you," he said into the ensuing silence, using a normal speaking voice. "As you all know, for some time there have been rumors of my imminent retirement."  
  
_Here it comes,_ Reyer thought, not surprised in the least.  
  
"I can now tell you that these are all true"—a murmur arose from the gathered assembly—"and it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire: Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre."  
  
The two strangers bowed to a smattering of applause. Reyer clapped unenthusiastically, then tuned Lefévre out. He had more pressing matters to attend to rather than listen to the sugary introductions that were sure to follow. _How like Lefévre to cut his losses and run,_ Reyer thought, re-opening his score and cutting past the two new managers. _I bet those poor fools don't know a thing about what really goes on around here._ He knelt at the edge of the stage, where the conductor was talking quietly to the first violinist. At Reyer's approach he looked up. "The tempo was a little fast, I think," he said.  
  
"Only a little," Reyer replied amiably—he liked the man—while checking his score. "The ballet was fine but the final rondo sounded a little rushed to me."  
  
The conductor nodded, making a note in his own score. "Otherwise everything is satisfactory?"  
  
"I would think so, although Madame Giry may disagree on the tempo of the ballet," Reyer said.  
  
The conductor paused in the middle of opening his mouth to reply, looking at something over Reyer's shoulder. "Oh, wonderful, a personal concert," he murmured sarcastically.  
  
Frowning, Reyer turned his head to see what the man was grimacing at. Carlotta was standing almost directly behind him, the tall manager—Andre—fawning over her like a pro, though this one looked like he actually meant every flowery word he said. "…I wonder, Signora," he was saying, "if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He noticed Reyer watching. "Unless, of course, Monsieur Reyer _objects._"  
  
Carlotta clasped her hands together in acquiesence, a sickening smile on her face. "My manager _commands,_" she gushed, turning to Reyer and continuing sweetly, "Monsieur Reyer?"  
  
Reyer resisted the urge to vomit. "My _diva_ commands," he said with equally false sweetness, standing and flipping through his score to the indicated aria. "Will two bars be sufficient introduction?"  
  
"Two bars will be quite sufficient," Lefévre said quickly, nearly cutting Reyer off in mid-sentence. Reyer merely stared at him in annoyance for a moment before closing his score and backing up a step, glancing at the conductor in the pit.  
  
"Signora."  
  
Carlotta took a minute to theatrically ready herself with her brightly-colored, gaudy scarf before signaling that she was ready to begin. "Maestro."  
  
The conductor brought his baton down and Carlotta began singing. Reyer tuned her out, preferring to imagine Christine singing in her place. What a just world that would be—Carlotta would never have left her native Italy and Christine would have the role of prima donna that she so rightfully deserved. A shame that talent alone never got one anywhere in opera. One had to be a deceitful, vicious pig like Carlotta, traits Christine thankfully lacked—a drawback to her career, perhaps, but fortuitous for her personality, Reyer supposed. That girl had not a cunning bone in her body, which was refreshing. Only a beautiful voice and the bearing of a mouse—  
  
Suddenly there was screaming; Reyer was jerked from his reverie just in time to see a backdrop nearly crash down on top of Carlotta—and for a second, he almost thought he heard the sound of laughter. Then one of the new managers, Andre, was in his face, evidently searching for a scapegoat for the near-murder of his beloved diva.  
  
"Do you people have no safety precautions?!" the man was yelling.  
  
Reyer's eyes narrowed in irritation. "What are you complaining to _me_ for?" he exclaimed in response, pointing to where Lefévre was screaming for Buquet, chief of the flies. "_I'm_ only the chorus master. Go have words with _him_ if you have to shout at someone!"  
  
Buquet appeared then, shaken, with a rope in one hand; he looked over at Carlotta, who was sobbing loudly in Piangi's arms.  
  
"For God's sake, man, what's going on up there?" Lefévre demanded.  
  
"I was not at my post, I swear to you!" the aging stagehand cried, shaking the rope at the general assembly. "There's no one there. If not me, then… a ghost!"  
  
The ballet girls all screamed in unison. "The Phantom of the Opera!" Meg whispered fearfully.  
  
Reyer whipped his head around to glare at her. "You hold your tongue!" he hissed. Reyer didn't believe in the Opera Ghost as religiously as Lefévre, the ballet girls, and others did, but he had a healthy respect for the name. Too many coincidental 'accidents' had occurred for _something_ not to be going on.  
  
"These things do happen," Andre was saying in his best reassuring voice to the tearful Carlotta.  
  
Her tears coming to a halt, Carlotta simply gazed at Andre for a moment, as if she thought her ears were deceiving her. "These things do 'appen?" she echoed, slowly advancing towards Andre, then drawing in a deep breath and continuing acidly, "_You_ 'ave been here _five_ minutes—what do _you_ know?!"  
  
Andre backpedaled a few steps and Reyer inwardly groaned. _Oh God, she's going to have a fit,_ he thought, doing his best to blend in with the scenery. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to get screamed at, especially by Carlotta.  
  
"For five years these things do 'appen, and do you stop them? No!" Carlotta raged at Lefévre. "And _you_—" she poked a finger at Andre. "You are as bad as him!" The exquisite fingernail was now aimed back at Lefévre. "So, these things _do_ 'appen! Well, until you _stop_ these things 'appening, _this_ thing does not 'appen!" She tossed her scarf savagely to the stage, then signaled to her maid, who had been hovering just offstage with the diva's furs. Now the tiny woman rushed on, wrapping the furs around Carlotta's shoulders, who imperiously lifted her chin and stalked off. "Ubaldo! Andiamo!"  
  
Piangi automatically stuck his nose in the air in an exact imitation of Carlotta and swaggered after her. "Amateurs!" he sneered disdainfully.  
  
The entire gathered assembly stared after them in shock; Reyer, simultaneously amused, dismayed, and annoyed, moved first, dashing after the retreating tenor. He caught up with both Piangi and Carlotta in the wings, nearly treading on the man's exquisitely embroidered cape. "And just where do you think _you're_ going, Signor?" he demanded in a low voice.  
  
Piangi maintained the holier-than-thou attitude. "For too long this has gone on. These injustices, I will not tolerate them. I cannot work like this."  
  
Reyer snorted derisively. Piangi was only parroting his precious diva's words. "You do realize, Signor," he said, "that this production will find a way to go on without you—without _both_ of you." He angled his head towards Carlotta, who merely sniffed and patted her furs.  
  
"I would like to see you try," she replied haughtily. "This opera house is nothing without me." She turned her back on Reyer and resumed walking. "Come, Ubaldo."  
  
Watching them disappear backstage, Reyer was suddenly thunderstruck. This was what he had been hoping for! Carlotta was gone, the opera was without a star, and there were two new managers who could be easily manipulated… it was utterly perfect! This could be Christine's only chance to get noticed!  
  
"It _will_ go on without you, indeed!" he muttered triumphantly, his mind formulating a plan to get Christine a chance to sing as he hurried back to the stage before too much damage could be done.  
  
When he got there, Lefévre was gone. Andre had a faintly shell-shocked expression on his face. Reyer had seen it happen countless times before—the man's hero worship image of Carlotta had just been shattered. Madame Giry was saying something about a Vicomte de Chagny. Reyer had heard the name over the past week; Chagny was the Opera's newest principle patron. Apparently he would be attending the evening's performance, which of course was now without its two stars. The managers very understandably looked panicked.  
  
"Madame, who is the understudy for the role?" Firmin asked in consternation.  
  
"There is no understudy, monsieur," Reyer automatically interjected, speaking up from behind Firmin. "The production is new."  
  
"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir," a small voice piped up from the sidelines. Everyone turned to see Meg Giry stand up confidently, clutching Christine's hands tightly. Christine suddenly looked terrified, and was trying to drag her friend back. "No, Meg, don't!" she protested weakly.  
  
"The chorus girl?" Firmin said incredulously. Reyer fought the urge to snicker. _Oh, you fool, you fool,_ he thought dryly. If only they all knew!  
  
Meg nodded quickly. "She's been taking lessons from a great teacher," she assured him.  
  
"From whom?" Andre asked curiously.  
  
Silence descended upon the stage as Christine, very aware of all the eyes on her, bit her lip and slowly climbed to her feet. Reyer held his breath. Surely Christine wouldn't let it slip now, after they had successfully kept her lessons secret for so long? Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Madame Giry steadily watching him.  
  
"I don't know, sir," Christine finally said in a tiny voice, staring down at the stage floor. It was exactly the most intelligent-sounding answer, Reyer reasoned, but it would do. Thank heavens she had the presence of mind not to tell the truth.  
  
Firmin threw up his hands in exasperation. "Oh, not you as well!" he exclaimed, turning to his fellow manager. "Can you believe it, Andre? A full house—and we have to cancel!"  
  
"Let her sing for you, monsieur," Madame Giry said quietly, but with enough authority that the managers couldn't help but stop and listen to her. She was not looking at Reyer this time. "She has been… well taught."  
  
Andre and Firmin looked at each other uneasily. "Very well," Andre sighed after a moment, prompting a flurry of excitement amongst the ballet girls, who apparently decided to forget their earlier torment of Christine and instead cheer for their own. Christine nervously walked forward to take center stage, accepting the scarf Meg had liberated from the wardrobe lady. Suddenly feeling a little jumpy, Reyer held the score up her for to look at.  
  
"From the beginning of the aria, then, mam'selle?" he inquired, not even realizing that he was still holding his breath. Christine looked quickly at the score, her eyes darting over the notes, then gulped and nodded, visibly shaking. Reyer gave her the barest, quickest of smiles before stepping back. She could sing this song, he knew she could. They'd rehearsed it a hundred times. All she had to do was tap into the mysterious well of courage of hers and she would do fine. Meg lifted Christine's hair away from her shoulders, gave her arm a final squeeze, and retreated to stand next to Reyer.  
  
In the pit, the piano began playing.  
  
As soon as Christine opened her mouth Reyer wanted to scream. The child was _warbling!_ He had _not_ worked so long and so hard with her only to have her completely bungle what might be her only shot at getting out of the corps de ballet! Her voice was shaking, she was practically whispering, and at the end of the first line she faltered. "I can't—" she began to protest.  
  
Madame Giry brought her stick down sharply on the stage and motioned for Christine to project more; Meg leapt forward to quickly give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Christine glanced back at Meg and Reyer for a moment before drawing in a deep breath and continuing. Reyer was shaking his head in defeat. He could hear someone in the back snickering. God, what a nightmare…  
  
"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Firming muttered.  
  
Andre quickly shushed him. "Don't fret, Firmin!"  
  
Christine turned back to stare out into the awesomely huge, empty auditorium, imagining it full with a standing ovation, and her voice filling the stage, the entire cavernous space, the entire Opera House… The managers wouldn't have to worry about nerves, Monsieur Reyer wouldn't have to be so disappointed in her—and perhaps she could finally do her father's memory proud. Carlotta would never snicker at her again.  
  
And she kept on singing, forgetting where she was, _who_ she was, and simply poured her heart and soul into the song.  
  
When she was finished, absolute silence reigned supreme on the stage. Even the orchestra was dumbstruck. Christine looked at the scarf, which had just fluttered down to rest on the stage at her feet, and then slowly turned around to face the company gathered behind her. What she saw made her heart leap. They were all staring at her in shock, their mouths virtually hanging open. Blinking uncertainly, unsure of what to do or say, Christine looked at Reyer, then at the managers.  
  
"Monsieur?" she asked timidly, looking at Reyer again.  
  
Andre shifted on his feet. "Mademoiselle," he said, glancing at Reyer for corroboration, "if you can do that again tonight, then the role is yours."  
  
Reyer nodded, then coughed loudly. "Who would like to sing for the role of Hannibal?"   
  
  



	4. Teacher of Music Part Four

Teacher of Music - Part Four

Teacher of Music, Part Four  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "What a change! You're really not a bit the gawkish girl that once you were..."  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene One    
  
  
Half an hour before the performance Reyer went to find Christine.  
  
The remainder of the day had been pure hell. Now that Christine had been put in the role of Elissa the corps de ballet was short one dancer, which was the way it would have to stay—it was too short of a notice to teach one of the younger ballet rats all the choreography. The baritone singing Dido, a youngish chap by the name of Joseph Arsenault, had been promoted to the role of Hannibal, which meant Reyer had to pick an inconsequential member of the chorus to replace him. That ended up being a young man fresh out of the conservatory. The whole thing reeked of disaster, but Reyer spent a few hours working with all three of them—Christine, Joseph, and the kid—going over their new lines and blocking, and he was reasonably certain that they would be able to make it through the opera without seriously bungling things. Still, he foresaw a large number of refunds in the future.  
  
Then the costume department had wanted them for emergency fittings, and was the last he'd seen of Christine for some time—the head costumer had bundled her off to places unknown, Christine looking back at him with an overwhelmed expression on her face. In the bustle of very-last-minute preparations Reyer had lost her, but now, so close to curtain time, he figured he ought to find her and give a pep talk of sorts. From an assistant costumer he learned Christine had been temporarily set up in an old, unused dressing room to get ready for the performance.  
  
It took him a few minutes to find it, but finally Reyer was standing at the end of a dimly-lit hallway, knocking on the dressing room door.  
  
"Yes?" a voice answered faintly.  
"Monsieur Reyer," he said, and after a moment the door opened. Reyer stepped inside. Christine was standing in the middle of the small room, dressed in Elissa's ornate gown, with one of the costumers putting away her sewing materials. In full makeup and costume Christine looked like such a different person that Reyer almost did a double-take. She looked older, more regal, and was fairly glowing in the light of the gas lamp on the vanity table.  
  
Christine smiled wanly at him as he entered, slowly turning in front of the mirror that had been set up to help in the alterations, as the costumer edged past Reyer and left the room. "What do you think?" she asked shyly.  
  
Reyer cocked his head musingly at her, and impulsively grinned. "I think that dress becomes you better than it does La Carlotta."  
  
The remark had its intended effect; Christine smiled and ducked her head, relaxing a little. "I'm nervous," she confessed.  
  
"Don't be." Reyer brought out the arm he'd been holding behind his back, producing a rose he'd liberated on spur of the moment from one of the floral displays in the grand foyer, thinking Christine would need any confidence it might bring. She took it from him with wide eyes. "Think of it as a good luck gift, I suppose," he said, adding, "Lord only knows you'll need it."  
  
"Thank you," Christine breathed, her face alight. "Thank you so much. If it weren't for you—"  
  
Reyer shook his head quickly. "No time for platitudes," he interrupted. "Listen, mademoiselle, you have no justifiable reason to be nervous. You know this role. But if you let yourself be struck by stage fright… then it will all be over." He didn't know quite what to say to reassure her; he'd never had to do such a thing before. "If it helps, I suppose you could always pretend that the auditorium is empty."  
  
Christine smiled again, timidly. "Have… have there been any refunds yet?" she asked hesitantly.  
  
"No," Reyer replied. He knew what she was thinking of. "Messieurs Andre and Firmin decided not to announce the cast changes until directly before the curtain goes up. You're going to have a full house."  
  
Christine was silent for a moment, looking off into empty space and carefully fingering the rose. Finally she drew in a deep breath, as if fortifying herself, and gently laid the flower down on the vanity table.  
  
"This is your moment," Reyer added quietly. "Your chance to show your talent. The managers are putting a lot of faith in you, Mademoiselle Daaé. You convinced them not to cancel this performance. You are not singing only to me now, and if you fail, you fail in front of Paris."  
  
Christine nodded. Under the heavy makeup, Reyer could see that she was very pale-faced. "I know."  
  
From out in the hallway, a voice called, "Christine?" A second later Meg Giry appeared in the doorway, and when she saw Christine she gasped. "Christine, you look beautiful!" she exclaimed, rushing forward to give her friend a hug. "Doesn't she look beautiful, monsieur?"  
  
Reyer merely raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly, but said nothing. Meg pulled back to smile warmly at Christine. "I feel so plain in comparison!" she cried, indicating her own costume, that of a slave girl.  
  
Christine flushed pink. "It's only a costume," she protested. "I—I wish I were still with you."  
  
"No you don't, silly!" Meg took Christine's hands and squeezed them reassuringly. "You are going to go out on that stage and make a mockery out of La Carlotta. Now you'd better go; Mother wants to talk to you." She turned to Reyer. "And Monsieur Gabriel is looking for you."  
  
Picking Elissa's scarf up from where it had been draped over the back of a chair, Christine checked her headdress in the mirror one last time, then looked at Reyer. "It's now or never, right?" she joked nervously.  
  
"That it is. After you, mademoiselles." Reyer waved Meg and Christine ahead of him out of the dressing room, then exited himself and closed the door behind him. "I'll go find Gabriel. Mademoiselle Daaé, I will see you backstage."  
  
Meg, chattering and cheerful as ever, dragged Christine off down the hallway. Reyer watched them go, the gaslight glinting off the faux jewels on their costumes, and sighed heavily. He didn't want to admit it, but he was nervous as well—nervous for Christine, nervous for the entire production. Bad reviews would be disastrous. Part of him was furious at Carlotta and Piangi for walking out and leaving them in such a position, but the rest of him would quite readily be willing dance a jig in bidding them good riddance for good. God willing, he'd make good on his words that _Hannibal_ could go on without them…   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
Later he stood in the wings, listening to Andre and Firmin address the audience. They had already introduced themselves as the new managers of the Opera Populaire and were now presenting the name of the opera about to be performed.  
  
Madame Giry glided up behind him. "Mademoiselle Daaé is asking for you," she murmured.  
  
Reyer's brow furrowed. "Is she?" He followed the ballet mistress around a side curtain to where Christine stood waiting to go on—she was featured in the opening scene of the opera. Standing a few feet away from Joseph the baritone, who looked nervous but determined to prove himself, she was more pale than ever and clutching the scarf tightly in her small hands.  
  
"Mademoiselle, what is wrong?" Reyer whispered as he approached her. In the background, he could hear Andre's voice speaking to the audience: _"We regret to inform you that there has been a last-minute change in casting…"_  
  
Christine was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. "I can't do this, Monsieur Reyer!" she whispered back, clearly in a panic. "What if I forget my lines? What if they all hate me? If they boo or hiss at me I'll—"  
  
Reyer quickly put a hand over Christine's mouth to silence her. Andre's voice continued speaking outside the curtain. _"The role of Elissa, Queen of Carthage will be sung by Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. The role of Hannibal will be sung by Joseph Arsenault. The role of Dido will be sung by…"_  
  
"You can't lose your nerve now!" Reyer hissed fiercely. "Where is that backbone of yours? Listen—everyone out there in the audience is wondering who this Mademoiselle Daaé is. They're wondering if she can sing. You have to show them that you're the best singer in Paris—give all those ridiculous noblemen their money's worth. I've heard you sing; I know you can do this." He stared intently at her for a moment. "Did I not once hear you say that you would never let me down?"  
  
Staring back at him, Christine drew in a shuddering breath and nodded shakily. "I won't—I swear I won't."  
  
Reyer smiled—it seemed an unnatural expression for his face to wear—and briefly patted her shoulder. "Good." Then he looked past her to Joseph. "Monsieur Arsenault?"  
  
Joseph blinked and looked at him. "Yes?"  
  
"Are you feeling confident or must I give another speech?"  
  
The baritone smiled. "I think you can save your breath, Monsieur. But thank you for the offer."  
  
In the pit, the orchestra struck up the overture and other members of the company began filing onstage to take their places for the opening scene. Joseph, who would be making a later entrance than Christine, smiled encouragingly at her. "Into the snake pit, yes, mademoiselle?"  
  
Christine merely exhaled and redoubled her grip on the scarf. "Most definitely," Reyer agreed, "but I think the three of you will do fine. Mademoiselle Daaé, you have your scarf; Monsieur Arsenault, here is your flunky." The conservatory kid appeared, dressed as Dido and looking younger than ever. "I think all of you are ready. Dido, go take your place. Good luck." The kid stepped out onto the stage while Joseph adjusted his costume and took one last look at his score. The overture drew to a close. Christine gave Reyer a despairing look.  
  
"I'll make a mistake, I know I will—"  
  
"Stop your fretting!" Reyer hissed. "You'll give yourself spasms. Just remember everything I have told you, and you will do fine." He gave her a little push towards the stage. "Now go out there and prove that you're better than a simple chorus girl."  
  
And with that, the curtain rose.   
  
  



	5. Teacher of Music Part Five

Teacher of Music - Part Five

Teacher of Music, Part Five  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "Yes, you did well. He will be pleased."  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Two    
  
  
During the cast bows, Reyer stood in the wings as usual and watched the opera's principals step out from the curtains. Although he could not see the audience, he could certainly hear them, and their applause was unanimously enthusiastic. The three new leads had done very well for being called in at such short notice; Joseph Arsenault and Christine Daaé made a far more pleasing duo of man and mistress than Ubaldo Piangi and Carlotta Giudicelli, and the young conservatory kid was a serviceable Dido. All three of them had certainly, unexpectedly triumphed, but the night's greatest success surely went to Christine. At least Joseph had already been somewhat known, and the kid already in the chorus—Christine had made the most glaring leap in roles, from dancer to leading lady. What an incredible triumph! She walked the stage as if she owned it, her voice was bold and confident with nary a tremor, and her delicate beauty, on the opposite end of the spectrum from Carlotta's brassy looks, was apparent to all. Now, as she and her two leading men stepped forward for their third bow, she seemed to be suffused with a kind of golden glow, awestruck at the applause, wearing a wide, bright smile on her face—she was positively radiant.  
  
Watching unseen, Reyer felt oddly golden himself. He was proud—of course he was proud. He couldn't remember ever being so pleased with anyone or anything in his entire life. He had imagined such a scenario as this, but never in his wildest dreams did he think it might come true one day. Carlotta was too fiercely protective of her role as diva. But the unthinkable had occurred, Carlotta had walked out, and Reyer's master plan had finally come to fruition—unknown Christine Daaé was upstaging popular favorite Carlotta Giudicelli in a most spectacular fashion.  
  
Oh, but victory was sweet. Reyer allowed himself a brief smile. He only wished he could be present to see the expression on Carlotta's face when she read the next morning's papers.  
  
Finally the curtain closed for the last time; Christine was now bearing an enormous bouquet of flowers in her arms. The moment the curtain was shut she was immediately swamped by an adoring corps de ballet, which was apparently still conveniently forgetting their earlier torment of her. Christine had the presence of mind to respond kindly to them, thanking them for their praise; Meg Giry attempted to give her friend an estatic hug but was repelled by the flowers. Sensing that Christine was becoming overwhelmed, Madame Giry managed to shoo the gaggle of dancers away, giving the poor girl some breathing room. Giry spoke a few quiet words to her. Reyer watched as Christine nodded, her face still alight, but he could see the fatigue beginning to show through her excitement. _That girl must be exhausted_, he thought. Well, he'd speak to her before she left.  
  
Madame Giry led the dancers off, the entire giggling bunch of them, and one of the costumers relieved Christine of her massive bunch of flowers. Before the lady left with them, though, Christine picked the two biggest blooms and gave one each to Joseph Arsenault and the conservatory kid, who were being congratulated by their friends in the chorus.  
  
"You both did so well!" Reyer heard her say. He deemed it a good time to approach, now that most of the crushing mass of people was dissipating.  
  
"_You_ were brilliant, Mademoiselle Daaé!" Joseph replied, humbly accepting the flower. "Wherever did that voice come from?"  
  
Christine looked aside, embarrassed at the praise, and unable to tell the truth. "Oh, it's always been there, I think," she murmured.  
  
"That kind of talent's natural," the conservatory kid piped up, then turned red, but he was smiling. He noticed Reyer approaching. "Well?" he asked. "Were we horrible?"  
  
"Very funny," Reyer said dryly as he joined the group; the congratulatory crowd left to get out of costume. "You were splendid, all of you. I don't think there will be very many refunds tonight." He nodded at each of them in turn. "You should be very pleased with yourselves. The managers ought to be pleased with you as well."  
  
Christine, Joseph, and the kid exchanged a mutual happy glance. Receiving any praise whatsoever from Reyer was a sure sign they had done well. "What about tomorrow's performance?" Joseph asked.  
  
Reyer paused to reflect on that—it was something he hadn't thought of. "I don't know," he said finally. "I have no doubt Madame Carlotta will be back to make a fuss once she hears _Hannibal_ triumphed without her, but if the managers are smart"—_which they probably are not_, he thought sourly—"you won't be replaced, at least not tomorrow. I would think it wise to prepare to continue in these roles, but also be prepared to return to your former roles."  
  
They nodded in understanding, but none of them looked too entirely thrilled at the prospect of giving up their newfound leading roles. Reyer turned to Christine. "Mademoiselle Daaé, a word with you, please?"  
  
A nervous shadow fell across Christine's face. "Of course," she stammered, suddenly on guard.  
  
Joseph and the kid bowed out, both of them exchanging sincere congratulations with Christine before leaving. Left alone with Reyer, Christine swallowed. "Did I do anything wrong?" she asked timidly, to forestall anything critical he might have to say. "Did I let you down?"  
  
Reyer broke into an out-and-out grin; Christine's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Not in the slightest!" he replied. "Mademoiselle, you were magnificent! I couldn't be prouder." He had unthinkingly taken her hand as he spoke; now he grasped it warmly. Christine, unused to receiving praise from him, merely smiled again and flushed pink. "The managers won't be able to ignore this—the fates willing, I don't think you'll be languishing in the corps de ballet much longer."  
  
"Do you truly think so?" Christine asked, and then yawned. Quickly her free hand shot up to cover it. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.  
  
"Quite all right, and yes, I do think so." Reyer realized he was holding her hand and quickly released it, but his uncharacteristic good humor remained. "Mademoiselle, do yourself a favor. As soon as you're out of costume, go straight home and to bed. You'll make yourself ill if you continue staying up nights to practice—don't deny it, I know you have." Christine looked down penitently. "Don't dawdle, simply go home. You'll thank yourself for it later."  
  
Christine nodded and looked up at him. "I promise to go straight home." She paused. "But staying up to practice paid off… didn't it?"  
  
"Yes, it certainly did." Reyer patted her briefly, a mite awkwardly, on the shoulder. "Go on now—we can't have you dropping asleep in the middle of some corridor. Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning."  
  
Christine took his free hand in both of hers and pressed it momentarily, a heartfelt smile on her face. "Thank you so much, Monsieur Reyer," she murmured gratefully, then gathered her voluminous skirt and swished off into the wings, where she was met by a costumer and Meg Giry; together the three set off for Christine's temporary dressing room.  
  
Reyer retreated to his closet of an office and put his score for _Hannibal_ on his desk after scribbling a few more general comments in the margins, then gathered his coat and prepared to leave. The managers most likely wouldn't require his presence until tomorrow, and he certainly wasn't going to wait on them to find out; they were probably somewhere busily celebrating the lack of massive refunds as it was. He would stop in and notify Madame Giry he was leaving, go eat a very late dinner, and go home extremely satisfied with his day for once. As he left he office and started off down the hallway, he had an absurd impulse to whistle a cheery tune.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
"A _tour de force_! No other way to describe it!" Monsieur André exclaimed in delight as he led a small party along the corridors to Christine's temporary dressing room. He was holding aloft a bottle of champagne and was in very high spirits. The more artistically minded of the new managerial duo, he was thrilled by the unexpected success of the gala.  
  
"What a relief—not a single refund!" Monsieur Firmin added. He was more business-minded and had an eye for profit.  
  
"Greedy," his wife admonished him with a smile.  
  
"Richard, I think we've made quite a discovery in Mademoiselle Daaé, don't you?" Firmin made a noise of agreement; André was now counting door numbers. "And… here we are, monsieur le vicomte." He was addressing the fourth member of their party, an expensively attired young man with fair blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, the reason for their little expedition. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny was the Opera's new principal patron and has expressed a definite interest in meeting the unexpected star of the gala. André and Firmin were only too happy to oblige him; his family was worth quite a bit of money and they wanted to keep him as a patron. "I believe this is Mademoiselle Daaé's dresing room."  
  
"Thank you." Raoul took the champagne from André. His manner was not snobbish or overly aristocratic, just that of a well-bred young man. "If you don't mind, this is one visit I would prefer to make… unaccompanied."  
  
André and Firmin glanced at each other. This would surely cause tongues to wag—Madame Firmin did so love her gossip—but surely the vicomte had nothing but the most sterling of intentions. "As you wish, monsieur," André acquiesced, gesturing for the Firmins to precede him back down the corridor, muttering under his breath, "One would think they had met before."  
  
That was precisely the case. Raoul had been surprised enough to recognize the name of Carlotta's replacement as that of his childhood friend, Christine Daaé, but when she entered the stage and began to sing…! He had hardly recognized her as the shy, dreamy young girl he had known. Elated to see his old, dear friend achieving such success, he had sent a short message ahead of him via the ballet mistress and hoped to talk with her, to see if she remembered him as fondly as he did her. Now he straightened his coat on his shoulders and knocked on the door.  
  
"Enter," a voice said. Her voice. Raoul opened the door and found Christine sitting at a vanity table with her back to him, dressed in a robe, brushing out her hair. She no longer looked larger-than-life as she had seemed on the stage, only the young woman with tired eyes preparing to go home that she was. She didn't look up when he entered.  
  
"Christine Daaé, where is your red scarf?" he asked dramatically.  
  
"Monsieur?" Christine stopped brushing, laid the comb down, looked up at his reflection in the mirror. She gave no indication of recognizing him, but she was plainly startled.  
  
"You can't have lost it," Raoul added, prodding, hoping to tease her memory, "not after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen, soaked to the skin…"  
  
In the mirror, Christine's eyes lit up. "…because you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf!" She glanced down at a slip of paper lying on the little table, then spun around in her chair to face him. "Raoul, it _is_ you!" She jumped up to give him a delighted hug.  
  
"Hello, Little Lotte," he smiled, returning the gesture.  
  
"So you remember that, too?" Christine retreated back to the vanity table, a little embarrassed at her display of emotion. But what a surprise! After those two summers years ago, she had never expected to see Raoul de Chagny again, much less be remembered by him. She'd been smitten with him then. But she firmly reminded herself that those feelings were those of a schoolgirl and had no business being resurrected now; even if she wanted one, she knew she had no future with the vicomte.  
  
"I remember quite a bit," Raoul replied cheerfully. "Especially the stories your father would tell us."  
  
Christine smiled faintly. "Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. Yes."  
  
"I daresay you _have_ been visited by the Angel of Music. Christine, you were amazing! What a triumph! I never guessed you had such talent. Will you do an old friend the honor of accompanying him to a congratulatory supper?"  
  
Christine instinctively began to say yes, then stopped. She heard Reyer's voice in her head: _"Do yourself a favor… go straight home and to bed…"_ She wanted to accept Raoul's invitation, but she desperately needed some shuteye, and she did not doubt that Reyer would resort to braining her with a book to make sure she got it. He was such a taskmaster. "I would like to, Raoul, but I can't—"  
  
"Say yes, there's so much we could catch up on—"  
  
"—no, Raoul—"  
  
"—you must get dressed and I must get my hat." Raoul seemed to have already made up her mind for her and wasn't taking no for an answer. "Two minutes, Little Lotte." With a final smile that would melt any ingenue's heart, he turned and left, chuckling merrily to himself.  
  
Dismayed, Christine rushed after him, watching him retreat down the corridor. Two minutes?! She would be lucky if she could get her dress on in two minutes, much less be ready to go out on the town with a respected member of Parisian society! Her, a foreign-born orphan! She couldn't possibly go! If and when Monsieur Reyer heard of this he would never let her hear the end of it. Quickly she shut the door and pulled her street clothes from the boudoir. Perhaps if she prayed hard enough Raoul would dawdle or be caught by the managers and allow her to slip out without having to make silly excuses…  
  
There came a knock on the door. "Christine?" Meg's voice called. "Mother's ready to leave—"  
  
"Meg!" Christine nearly shrieked, fumbling at the buttons of her dress with one hand and yanking open the door with the other. "Have you seen the Vicomte de Chagny?!"  
  
Meg blinked and gaped at her for a second, taken aback by her friend's suddenly loud, panicked attitude. "Yes, I just passed by him, I—"  
  
"Find him and stall him!" Christine begged as she finished with the buttons, then went hunting for her shoes.  
  
Meg gaped even more. "What? Why?"  
  
"He wants to take me out to supper and I need time to dress and leave before he comes back!" Christine replied quickly, sitting at the vanity table and lacing on her shoes. "I can't go; Monsieur Reyer told me to go straight home."  
  
Clearly confused and astonished, Meg watched as Christine pulled a brush through her hair and quickly clipped it back. "Christine, are you _mad?_" she gasped. "His family is very powerful, if he likes you it could help advance your career and—"  
  
Christine shot her an imploring look. "Please?"  
  
"Christine, you're turning down an invitation from one of the most eligible young men in France!"  
  
Pausing momentarily in grabbing her cloak and gloves, Christine narrowed her eyes at Meg. "I _know_ that, Meg!" She shooed her away. "Go on, find him and keep him busy for a minute, give me time to leave without him noticing."  
  
Meg gave Christine a look that clearly implied the dancer's opinion of her friend's mental state, but did as requested and headed in the direction from which she had come. Christine stuck her head out in the hall and watched her go as she hastily finished buttoning her cloak and then pulled on her gloves. She would wait a moment, then attempt the back exit. Ducking back into the dressing room, she snapped the hood of the cloak over her head and turned down the gas lamp.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
Meg met Raoul de Chagny at the head of the corridor.  
  
"Good evening, monsieur le vicomte!" she chirped, mentally scrambling for something to say. She settled for, "Are you on your way to see Christine?"  
  
Raoul paused, looking amused and a little surprised. He was now wearing a top hat and was still carrying the bottle of champagne. "Yes, I am. Do you know her, mademoiselle…?"  
  
"Giry, Meg Giry." She tried, as nonchalantly as possible, to stragetically place herself in the center of the corridor entrance. _Oh, the things I do for you!_ she thought. It was incredibly unfair of Christine to put her in this position; well, she would find a way to get her back for it. In the meantime, Christine had better thank her for this… Meg still thought her crazy. "I'm Christine's best friend."  
  
"Oh? Is she still in her dressing room?" Raoul tried to peer past Meg, down the corridor.  
  
"I don't know," Meg lied through her teeth, still in the same bright, perky tone. Egads, he was going to think her empty-headed! "She might be. I didn't look." _Hurry up, Christine!_  
  
"Well, if you will excuse me, Mademoiselle Giry…" Raoul carefully edged past Meg. "I must be going. It was a pleasure to meet you." He nodded and walked down the corridor towards Christine's dressing room. As soon as his back was turned Meg winced and sidestepped to the edge of the doorway, watching carefully, ready to make an escape at a moment's notice. She watched Raoul knock on a door, and after a short silence knock again.  
  
_She made it!_ Meg thought in relief, _now neither of us have to be horribly embarrassed._ Quickly she tiptoed away, before Raoul could realize he'd been given the slip. She didn't quite understand why Christine would want to do such a thing, but she could always persuade her to explain tomorrow.  
  
Outside, safely undetected, Christine hailed a cab and started for home. It seemed an anticlimactic ending to the most incredible day of her life. It felt like centuries since she had awakened that morning and reported to rehearsal as a dancer… and finished rehearsal as the leading lady. And the gala itself—she could hardly believe her success. Waiting for the curtain to rise she had been nearly ill with fright and nerves, but then Monsieur Reyer reminded her of her vow never to let him down. And she had thought of her father, whose memory she so desperately wanted to do proud. That had given her the courage she needed; once she stepped on that stage she hardly knew herself.  
  
_The managers won't be able to ignore this_, Reyer had said. His praise had meant the world to her—thank heavens, she hadn't disappointed him, she hadn't been a waste of his time. _I don't think you'll be languishing in the corps de ballet much longer…_  
  
Christine leaned back against the seat of the cab and smiled to herself. If he was right, perhaps this could be the start of a new life for her… the life her father had dreamed of for her.   
  
  



	6. Teacher of Music Part Six

Teacher of Music - Part Six

Teacher of Music, Part Six  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "Leading ladies are a trial!"  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight    
  
  
"'Unknown singer thrills at Opera,'" Monsieur Andre read aloud from a newspaper the next morning, as Monsieur Firmin sifted through the business on his desk. "'Christine Daaé a sensation. Three leads make a success of _Hannibal_.' I trust your nerves are sufficiently mollified by this good publicity, Richard. No refunds, glowing reviews—quite a start to our new careers, don't you think?"  
  
Firming was sorting the mail. "Three inexperienced leads don't seem to have hurt us, no. But I think the loss of our two stars will hurt us financially in the future. Christine Daaé, Joseph Arsenault, that fellow who performed Dido—who has ever heard of them? Their names won't draw crowds. The Opera could lose money."  
  
Andre frowned, not understanding Firmin's pessimism. "That may be so, but I should hardly think we'd need La Carlotta and Ubaldo Piangi anymore." Having received the brunt of the diva's tirade yesterday, he was no longer inclined to support her. "Firmin, Daaé and Arsenault are stars in the making! Just look at these reviews!—" Andre shook a newspaper in Firmin's direction. "I daresay after last night everyone in Paris will be flocking to see this new sensation! Have you no eye for the future?"  
  
"Not an artistic one," Firmin replied dryly. "That's your job." He passed an envelope over. "You have a letter."  
  
Setting the newspaper aside, Andre took the letter and opened it, his eyes quickly scanning the message from behind a pair of spectacles. As he read, a look of confusion clouded his face, soon replaced by a mix of astonishment and disbelief. "What the devil…?" he murmured. "Here, Firmin, listen to this." Having gained his colleague's attention, Andre read aloud.  
  


> _"Messieurs Firmin and Andre:  
  
Congratulations on the splendid opera—Mademoiselle Daaé and Monsieur Arsenault enjoyed a trememdous success. Carlotta was not missed. A brief reminder in the event Lefévre did not inform you—my salary has not been paid. I require twenty thousand francs a month. It is better that you pay; my methods of dealing with debtors are most unkind.  
  
Sincerely, O.G."_

Firmin stared across at Andre, who looked just as puzzled as he felt; the other man dropped the letter down on his desk as if it were a large spider. "If this is supposed to be a joke, it's not very humorous," he said, and paused. "Who the hell is 'O.G.'?"  
  
He and Firmin looked at each other.  
  
"Opera Ghost," they muttered in unison.  
  
Andre glared at the discarded piece of paper before him. "This is _not_ amusing."  
  
A knock on the door preceded the entrance of Monsieur Gabriel, the orchestra conductor. He was tall, unusually slender, with fine black hair; his relatively youthful features bespoke intelligence. He had been promoted to the position of chief conductor the previous year, after the Opera's veteran conductor retired. He was carrying a stack of newspapers under one arm. At the sight of him Firmin scrambled out of his chair. "You! You're a longtime employee," he cried, grabbing the mysterious letter off Andre's desk and charging around towards the conductor, brandishing the paper in the man's face. "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
Taken aback by his reception, Gabriel silently took the letter with his free hand and read over it. Then he lightly shrugged and handed it back to Firmin. "It's just the Opera Ghost."  
  
"_Just_ the Opera Ghost?" Andre commented, one eyebrow raised.  
  
Gabriel nodded, shifting the newspapers under his arm. "Correct. The Opera Ghost. The ballet rats like to call him The Phantom of the Opera—they think it adds more drama and romance to the stories." He chuckled. "He sort of comes with the building, supposedly. Mostly the Ghost is really rather helpful, dropping notes here and there to encourage people or to make suggestions, though he was the bane of Lefévre's existence. And the Ghost's dislike for La Carlotta is well known by now." He paused, and cleared his throat. "I don't know why he demands a salary. But I believe it in your best interests, messieurs, that you pay him."  
  
Firmin looked exasperated. "And why is that?"  
  
"Accidents, monsieur." Gabriel suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Things… happen… when the Ghost is displeased." When Firmin snorted, he rushed on. "Yesterday, when that backdrop fell and nearly flattened La Carlotta—things of that sort. Please don't think me mad. I'm quite sane. Ask anyone else here at the Opera, and they will tell you exactly what _I've_ told you."  
  
Firmin stared at the man for a long moment, a faint expression of disbelief on his face, then he sighed and went back to his desk, dropping heavily into his chair. "Ah, opera folk!" he murmured sarcastically.  
  
Gabriel's eyebrows knitted in distress, and he turned a pleading gaze upon Andre. Andre promptly picked up the offending letter and re-inserted it into its envelope, then tucked it into a desk drawer. Best to divert the conversation before Firmin descended into one of his volcanic moods. Practical jokes and pranksters could be dealt with later; at the present an opera house needed running. "Just remember, Richard, this little enterprise was _your_ idea," he said mildly, then quickly changed the subject. "Monsieur Gabriel, I believe congratulations are in order for you and the orchestra. You performed splendidly last night."  
  
"Thank you," Gabriel replied, visibly relieved. His eyes flicked back towards Firmin, who was now going about the business of counting receipts. Gabriel was not an easily unnerved man, but the brooding expression Firmin wore suggested an individual who could be lethal to one's career if his temper were inflamed. And the conductor didn't relish being unlucky enough to land the unenviable task of explaining the Opera Ghost to the new management. How like Lefévre to neglect to mention that one little piece of information…  
  
Andre stacked his own collection of newspapers, placed them on a corner of his desk, and readjusted his spectacles on his nose. "If you would be so kind as to fetch the chorus master—"  
  
There was another knock on the door; it opened, and the fresh-faced secretary Rémy stepped partway in. "The Vicomte de Chagny is here."  
  
"Ah, good. Show him in."  
  
Rémy nodded and withdrew; Andre looked over at Firmin. He cleared his throat. "Richard, your prized patron has arrived."  
  
Firmin looked up sharply from the receipts. "What? Oh. Yes." He shoved the receipts aside and folded his hands atop his desk as Raoul de Chagny entered the room. "Good morning, monsieur le vicomte," he said politely, all traces of his foul mood gone. "Have you read the papers this morning?"  
  
Raoul smiled, temporarily dispelling the aura of vague confusion and worry that surrounded him. "I have. It's tremendous for Christine—Mademoiselle Daaé. Have you seen her today?"  
  
Firmin and Andre frowned at each other. "No," Andre said. "Why?"  
  
There was a sudden commotion in the outer office, the sound of Rémy letting out a small yelp of surprise followed closely by a soft thud; before either of the managers, Gabriel, or Raoul could move to investigate, Carlotta Giudicelli swept theatrically through the door Rémy had left open. "I have returned to save you from certain doom!" she declared grandly, a hugely bright smile pasted upon her face.  
  
Everyone simply stared at her, their mouths more or less open in shock. Even Gabriel, normally a well-collected individual, was stunned into blinking silence.  
  
Carlotta's abnormally glittering smile shrank a hair, and her wide-flung arms dropped slightly. "Are you not happy to see me?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Rémy apologized sheepishly from the doorway, where he was rubbing his shoulder. "She pushed right past me…"  
  
There was another moment of silence. Gabriel recovered first. Shifting the newspapers he held to the crook of his other arm, he opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, "I'll just be fetching Monsieur Reyer now, if you don't mind—" Then he brushed sideways past Carlotta and virtually dashed to the outer door, unsettled for the second time that day.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
The day had dawned bright and clear. Reyer was in a cheerful mood. Or at least as cheerful a mood as his personality would allow.  
  
He didn't even halfway understand it. For the first time in recent memory, he hadn't wished to commit mass homicide on the Parisian bird population while walking to the Opera. On his way there Reyer had collected several newspapers that contained reviews of the gala performance, all with glowing praise for Christine Daaé. Upon reading the first he broke into a most unexpected grin; by the time the last review was read, he was feeling almost downright friendly in attitude. He even found that the grin plastered on his face had actual feeling behind it, found himself struck with an insane urge to dance down the sidewalk and laugh like a lunatic, to proclaim to the world that this new sensation was _his_ student, _his_ discovery, _his_ doing. He wanted to collect every review he could possibly find and mail them to Carlotta, with a degree of satisfaction with life that he hadn't experienced in years.  
  
Instead Reyer found his feet propelling him onward at a brisker pace than usual, the faster to arrive at the Opera and get the morning meeting with the singers over with so he could move on to Christine's daily lesson. Now he was in his office, looking over the notes he had written down in his score for _Hannibal_ and jotting down a few extra ones to give to Christine later, preparing to meet with the singers. So enveloped was he in his good humor that he failed to contemplate the possibility of Carlotta returning in a fury once she saw the reviews—she could not fail to read them—and so did not anticipate what happened next.  
  
As 'cheerful' was not a word analogous to Reyer's emotional vocabulary, his good mood was of course a mood not destined to last very long.  
  
He was just placing his notes for Christine under a stack of sheet music when the door to his office flew open. Monsieur Gabriel entered, looking unusually agitated. "Prepare yourself," he said grimly and without preamble.  
  
Reyer was so taken aback he didn't even snap at the man for not knocking first. "Prepare myself for what?"  
  
Gabriel deposited the stack of newspapers he held in the overstuffed guest armchair, then folded his arms across his chest. "La Carlotta. She's back."  
  
Reyer froze in the act of closing his score, and felt his good humor immediately vanish.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
Upon arriving at the Opera that morning, Christine Daaé hadn't had a clue as to what to do with herself. Ordinarily she would have reported to the ballet studio, changed into her rehearsal costume, and begun her warmup exercises, but given recent circumstances—_recent circumstances, indeed!_—she was no longer sure of what to do or where to go. What exactly was her position in the Opera House now? Was she a dancer, a singer, or both? Would the managers still want her to sing Elissa tonight? For that matter, what of the rest of _Hannibal_'s run? Performances were due to continue through the week, and then the company would begin rehearsals for Albrizzio's _Il Muto_. Would she have to return to the corps de ballet then?  
  
She was so close to achieving her dream of being a famous opera singer—had just taken a major leap in that direction—that she was extremely loath to consider any possibility of having to return to that giggling band of backstabbing dancers. Finally, Christine decided to go to the main rehearsal room, where the other singers would be congregating. Surely Madame Giry wouldn't be angry if she was a little confused and didn't report to ballet rehearsal.  
  
When she arrived at the singers' rehearsal room and peeked timidly in the door, she spotted Joseph Arsenault waving at her from the second row of chairs. The conservatory kid was sitting next to him, surrounded by newspapers and thumbing through one with a big, sloppy grin on his face. Christine made her way towards them, acknowledging a few called-out words of congratulations with a shy smile and a nod of her head.  
  
"Good morning, Christine!" the kid said brightly as Christine sat down in the empty seat next to Joseph. Seeing as they were fellow newfound stars, the kid had evidently decided to do away with formal titles. "I say, have you seen any of these reviews yet?"  
  
"Just one." Christine wasn't particularly well-off in her finances—one could barely live on a dancer's wages and her father had died virtually penniless—but she had indulged herself by buying one of the theatrical papers on her way to the Opera that morning. Even despite the fact that she knew she had done well, she was still utterly surprised to find the critic had loved her performance. Who had she been kidding? Her peers' praise and especially Monsieur Reyer's unexpected kind words did mean a lot to her, but finding that one of Paris's leading operatic critics had enjoyed her singing was like the icing on an already rich cake. She could almost see her father smiling down at her from heaven. _I've been touched by the Angel of Music, haven't I, Papa? Are you proud of me?_  
  
The kid's enthusiastic voice brought Christine back to reality. He had picked up one of the many newspapers that were scattered about his feet and was shaking it at her. "You ought to read the review in this one and see what they said about you!"  
  
Christine felt butterflies in her stomach. "Oh, I couldn't possibly." She looked nervously at Joseph. "You read it."  
  
Smiling knowingly, Joseph took the paper from the kid and opened it to the correct page, folding it back and smoothing it over his knees. Then he cleared his throat and began to read. "It says here, 'The role of Elissa, Queen of Carthage was sung by Christine Daaé, who unexpectedly performed in place of the absent Carlotta Giudicelli. Mademoiselle Daaé's performance was nothing short of a revelation. Never have we seen an Elissa with so sublime a voice, so strong-willed yet vulnerable in character. Mademoiselle Daaé was formerly a member of the corps de ballet at the Opera Populaire, and this critic wishes to commend the individual who chose to pluck this jewel from obscurity. Paris has not known such a sensation since La Carlotta originally debuted in this role, but at this performance she was not missed.' My, that was certainly flattering, I should say."  
  
Throughout Joseph's recitative, a smile had slowly spread across Christine's face. She found the courage to pluck the newspaper from his hands and look it over herself. "They flatter you, too. 'Richer vocally than Signor Piangi' and 'More convincing as Elissa's lover'…" Her cheeks turned bright red in embarrassment as her voice trailed off, and she handed the newspaper back to Joseph.  
  
He winked at her good-naturedly, then elbowed the kid in the ribs. "No mention of you blushing like a baby when Mademoiselle Daaé here had to kiss you on the cheek. But I think this critic was willing to overlook our mistakes in light of the circumstances."  
  
"It's easy for you to joke about blushing," the kid retorted with a smile, as Christine willed her facial color to return to normal. "You were like a regular Don Juan, you were. That reminds me—" He leaned forward to look across at Christine. "I heard that the Vicomte de Chagny was rather taken with you."  
  
"You did?" Christine was unable to keep a tinge of dismay out of her voice—she was flattered, she truly was, and glad to see him, but they couldn't possibly have the future she feared Raoul was interested in. And if the kid had heard, well, then the entire Opera probably knew. _Meg…_ "Well, we knew each other when we were young," she added uncomfortably.  
  
"Really?" Joseph asked curiously.  
  
Christine nodded and, seeking to change the topic to a more comfortable one, asked, "Shouldn't Monsieur Reyer be here by now? Where is he?"  
  
Joseph shrugged and settled back into his chair, backing off from pursuit of Christine's relationship with the vicomte. "I haven't seen him." Suddenly he grinned. "Maybe he's off negotiating a new contract for you. You didn't really think he'd allow you to stay with the ballet after last night's performance, did you?"   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
In the managers' office, Carlotta was livid. "I cannot believe that you would even think about continuing _Hannibal_ without me!"  
  
She punctuated her exclamation with a sharp tap of her artful parasol. Andre flinched. He and Firmin were both leaning against the front of Firmin's desk, front and center for Carlotta's tirade; Raoul de Chagny was hovering beside Andre's desk; Reyer was glowering at Carlotta from by the door; and Gabriel was standing in a corner, hoping to be forgotten. Rémy was back out in the outer office, where he had been banished to attempt to pacify Ubaldo Piangi. No such luck for the managers. Carlotta had indeed read the papers and, outraged that _Hannibal_ had triumphed—much less been performed—without her, had evidently decided she could continue to live with the Opera Ghost's hatred. No doubt she had intended to simply walk back into the Opera House and continue as if she had never left, had expected everyone to welcome her back with open arms.  
  
Not so, if Reyer had anything to say about it. He intended to put up a fight.  
  
"Now, signora," Firmin was fairly babbling, "that is not what we intended—"  
  
"That is _exactly_ what we intended," Reyer interrupted sharply, giving Firmin a very pointed and disgusted look. Carlotta turned on him, preparing to whip herself into an even more vile humor, but Reyer hurried on. He had something to say, and he would be damned if he'd allow Carlotta to run over him as she did everyone else. "Signora, you forfeited your right to the role of Elissa when you walked out of rehearsal yesterday."  
  
"He's right, you know," Gabriel murmured from his corner.  
  
Firmin harrumphed. Reyer quickly continued. "Did you expect us to _cancel_? Hardly likely! No, we found some very willing and able singers to take your places." He didn't have to add _and it has been proven that this company can survive without you_—it was already very implicit in his tone and the sardonic lift of his eyebrows.  
  
Carlotta stabbed a finger in the general direction of the ballet studios. "'Able singers'? You cannot mean that awful, warbling dancer who has the gall to think herself a singer!" Savagely she swept the stack of newspapers off Andre's desk; again Andre flinched. "Who was it that bribed the papers to give such false reviews? Was it you?" The stabbing finger shifted to point at the vicomte.  
  
Raoul drew himself up to his full height, extremely offended. "I did no such thing!" he retorted hotly. "Really—"  
  
Andre coughed nervously. "Now, now—"  
  
Carlotta sniffed derisively. "They are all lies, all of them. No dancer—and especially not that mewling brat—can ever hope to best me." She turned suspicious eyes upon Monsieur Reyer. "How is it that a _dancer_ was chosen for this folly?"  
  
Reyer was suddenly struck by a great desire to destroy the woman. It wasn't the first time he'd had such an inclination, but never had he felt it so strongly. Instead, he carefully kept his face composed in a coolly sardonic mask and feigned ignorance. "No one ever said ballet dancers weren't allowed to be singers as well, signora. Mademoiselle Daaé knew the role. She had the voice. Perhaps she simply has a natural talent, whereas _you_ had to _work_ at acquiring yours."  
  
Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him; Reyer noted with a twinge of uneasiness that the suspicious glint did not entirely disappear. "And it is easily apparent that _you_ have no talent at all."  
  
Gabriel winced mightily, averting his eyes from the ugly scene that was sure to follow. Reyer stiffened, feeling his entire body go white-hot and then cold in an instant rage. One would have expected him to also feel humiliation or at the very least shame, but those were not emotions he would allow himself to feel, not at Carlotta's expense. The expression on his face must have been truly violent, however, for the vicomte took what appeared to be an involuntary step back, and Firmin swiftly moved to interpose himself between Reyer and the diva.  
  
"Now, let's be reasonable here," the balding manager said quickly, with hands folded in a peacekeeping gesture. "It's obvious that we're not going to be able to please everyone. I'm sure we can negotiate something—"  
  
"Daaé stays in the ballet," Carlotta said flatly.  
  
"Absolutely not!" both Reyer and Raoul exploded at the same time; each giving the other a strange glance, Raoul continued, "If you do such a thing, I will take my funding elsewhere. The Opera Comique, perhaps."  
  
Firmin gaped. Gabriel hid a smirk behind one hand. Reyer, gratified to have found an ally but unsure if he wanted to know why the vicomte was so adamant regarding Christine, added, "Gentlemen, Mademoiselle Daaé does not belong in the ballet corps, she belongs in leading roles. You cannot let a voice like hers go to waste!"  
  
"_What_ voice?" Carlotta growled.  
  
Andre fixed her with a bespectacled stare. "How can we be sure that you won't walk out again?"  
  
Carlotta lifted her chin. "I will not. You have my word."  
  
Reyer, still smoldering, could barely suppress a darkly amused chuckle. Even so, he could feel his admittedly slim hope of driving La Carlotta out once and for all slipping away from him. Was there nothing he could do for his pupil? The thought of all those weeks of hard work being for almost naught somehow made him feel sick inside. "Her word means nothing," Reyer said shortly. "Make Mademoiselle Daaé her understudy." "I need no understudy!" Carlotta snapped back venomously.  
  
Andre and Firmin exchanged a long look. The Opera's main attraction had returned, but was by all evidence extremely temperamental and therefore less than trustworthy; therefore insurance was needed in the event the diva threw another tantrum. There was the threat of their wealthy new patron pulling out his stakes and moving elsewhere if the diva's wishes were followed. And while the managers were not exactly experts on the world of opera, neither were they complete ignoramuses; Daae really _didn't_ belong in the corps de ballet. All this left them in a slight conundrum as to averting all-out warfare amongst their employees.  
  
Finally Andre sighed. "Here is what I propose. La Carlotta will finish _Hannibal_'s run as Elissa, and Mademoiselle Daaé will return to the ballet corps." Both Reyer and the vicomte opened their mouths to protest; Andre silenced them with a wave of his hand. "_However_, after _Hannibal_ is finished, Mademoiselle Daaé will be moved to the chorus and henceforth will understudy all of La Carlotta's roles. Is this acceptable to all of you?"  
  
Carlotta stared hard at Andre for a long moment, then apparently decided she would get no better deal and haughtily turned on her heel to stalk out of the office, pushing Reyer out of the way to yank open the door. He had a sinking feeling that he knew where the diva would be headed, and giving those left in the room a curt nod, hurried after her in hopes of averting a potential debacle.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
In the rehearsal room, one of the singers sitting near Christine, Joseph, and the conservatory kid suddenly asked, "Who on earth is making that horrible racket out in the hallway?"  
  
They listened. Further down the outside corridor, two individuals appeared to be engaged in a bitter shouting match, and coming closer by the second. "Sounds like old Sour Face," the singer's friend said with a grin, using one of the company's myriad derogatory nicknames for Monsieur Reyer.  
  
Joseph laughed. "When is he ever _not_ shouting at someone?"  
  
The others laughed with him, but Christine only bit her lip. She suddenly felt queasy, but didn't understand why.  
  
Another singer said, "Wait. Did I just see _Ubaldo Piangi_ walk past the door? Why is _he_ here?"  
  
Joseph and the kid looked sharply at each other as the shouting in the hallway abruptly stopped, only to start up again with two male combatants instead of one male and one female. The kid went slack-jawed. "That was La Carlotta he was arguing with…"  
  
As one the two turned their gazes upon a now gray-faced Christine, who looked back at them with eyes as wide as saucers. "Hide," Joseph blurted.  
  
They hadn't even time to rise from their seats when Carlotta appeared in the doorway, red-faced and thunderous as a tornado. Her eyes quickly swept the room; when they fixed upon the frozen Christine, Carlotta pointed a dagger-like finger at her and boomed, "_You!_"  
  
The entire assembly instantly fell silent.  
  
Carlotta charged over to Christine, snatched up the young woman's arm, and yanked her to her feet. Christine's cry of pain caused Joseph to start violently and make a move to stand, but the kid quickly restrained him—this was an upheaval no one on earth had the power to stop. "So, I see you have gone and made a spectacle of yourself, you little chit," Carlotta snarled, eyes blazing as brightly as her flame-colored hair. "But let me tell you something. _I_ am the prima donna here. _I_ am one of the world's greatest singers. Men have been known to slay themselves over _me_. You—"  
  
Piangi walked into the room with a sickeningly smug air about him. Reyer followed a second later, looking as if he'd been knocked silly. When he saw Carlotta virtually ripping Christine apart he could only blink, and stare.  
  
Carlotta took no notice of them. "_You_ are only a pathetic little dancer who should never have been allowed to set foot in the conservatory, and sleeps with noblemen to use them to scheme against the _true_ talent in this opera house. _You_ are not a singer. You will never _be_ a singer, no matter what pretty lies you have been told or who you slept with to create those lies. _You_ will never replace me. _I_ have no need of an understudy, so do not think that I will _ever_ allow you to sing in my place again! Is that clear?"  
  
The diva still tightly held Christine by the arm, who was wide-eyed and shaking and pale as a ghost in the face of Carlotta's fury, wishing nothing more than to die on the spot, and too stunned to speak or even to breathe.  
  
"I do not hear you," Carlotta hissed.  
  
Christine somehow managed to swallow and whisper, "It is clear," her voice wobbling and wavering up and down the scale.  
  
"Good. We are at an understanding then. You would do well to remember what I have said." Carlotta let go of Christine's arm and smiled wickedly at her. The young woman recoiled sharply the instant she was free, still trembling and white-faced and on the verge of nervous collapse; then, overcome by shame and humiliation, Christine abruptly burst into tears and fled from the room. The entire company watched her go in silence. Reyer flinched as she passed him, but made no move to say anything or to stop her.  
  
An uneasy quiet descended upon the rehearsal room.  
  
In the end, it was Reyer who broke the silence. He did not move, nor look away from the indeterminate spot in the empty first row of chairs that he had been staring at; he merely said, calmly and quietly, in a voice no one at the Opera had ever heard him use, "Leave. Do not come back until the performance tonight."  
  
Then he turned and walked out, without another word. He did not follow Christine.  
  
Carlotta continued to smile.   
  
  



	7. Teacher of Music Part Seven

Teacher of Music - Part Seven

Teacher of Music, Part Seven  


_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
_ "Down we plunge to the prison of my mind..."  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act Two Scene Eight    
  
  
_You are a joke._  
  
It was some time after Carlotta's very public dressing down of Christine Daaé. Reyer sat in his office, behind his desk with his elbows propped up on the edge and his head in his hands, his bowler hat tossed and forgotten in a corner. His mind kept replaying, as if trapped in a mocking loop, the words Carlotta had spat at him in the corridor outside the rehearsal room. He knew he shouldn't think anything of it, and indeed usually managed to brush aside the majority of the diva's calculated insults, but today… today those insults cut closer to the quick than usual.  
  
_"You have no business in attempting to influence the casting at the opera house, signora—you are merely a contracted singer and you have no say—"  
  
"And you imagine_ you _do?"  
  
"Well, yes. Have you conveniently forgotten that I'm the chorus master here? I have to make sure the singers have at least a modicum of talent before the idiot managers hire them, in which case_ you _never would have gotten past me if you'd come here later than you did, and I advise—"  
  
A condescending chuckle. "Ah, you never fail to amuse me. You sorry little man, you believe that you are_ needed _here?"  
  
Indignantly: "Yes, I do! The singers can hardly be trusted to learn the music themselves, and Lefévre would not have hired me if he didn't think—"  
  
More laughter. "You were not hired for your_ ability_, dear Reyer! You were hired out of_ pity_! The management would have released you entirely, but Monsieur Deschanel convinced him that you would starve without the Opera's charity, because you were not on speaking terms with your family. You did not know that? Tsk, tsk, I thought you did! Oh, do not look so red-faced, it is not good for the health. Learning that one is useless is always hard—"  
  
"As if you would know!" The exclamation was heated. "You know, you're really being very vile today, even for your standards—did those oh-so-true reviews rankle you? Well, I'm sorry that the truth has been revealed, but—"  
  
"They were_ not _true! Paris loves_ me_, not that scheming little trollop! And you—you wanted to be famous also, did you not? I am sure you could be—in a village pub somewhere. Why don't you go and seek your fame there, where you_ will _be needed, if only to make background noise for the drunks?"  
  
Reyer was nearly speechless. "You're hardly fit to sing in a pub yourself, you wicked profligate!"  
  
"But who is the star now? Certainly not you, to no one! And you would be wise not to speak to me in such a manner again, Monsieur Reyer, or you could lose this appointment like you lost all else."  
  
"Y-you can't do that!"  
  
"Ah, but I can—fame brings with it power, something you have never had here. You can lose your appointment as chorus master, and then you will have nothing—no employ, no money, no use to anyone, not even your own family. You are not needed, and you are useless! You are a joke, a pitiful joke of a man!"_  
  
Carlotta's threat—not to mention her manner of presenting it—had left Reyer stunned, and in a humor so unbelievably black it made him appear nearly catatonic. Piangi had wanted to sneer as well, and got in more than his usual half-witted mouthful before it became clear that Reyer wasn't really hearing him. And to add insult to injury, he hadn't been able to gather his wits back about him in time to stop Carlotta's tantrum. Yet another reason to mentally flog himself—like a fool, he'd allowed Carlotta's taunts to get to him, something he hadn't done in a long time. He tried not to take the insults seriously, but then, Carlotta wasn't usually so _personal_… "I _wasn't_ hired out of pity," Reyer muttered wrathfully at the desktop, the words sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. "I was hired out of _necessity_. That evil witch, on the other hand…"  
  
Unwittingly, he found his thoughts drifting back to the early days, years ago, when he was younger and actually somewhat optimistic, and Carlotta Giudicelli had been a largely unknown member of the Opera Populaire's chorus…   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
_Spring 1872_  
  
"Looks like Old Man Deschanel is late _again_." Martin Reyer, then in his mid-twenties, gave a little cackle of derision and settled back into his chair. "Why doesn't the management get someone new? The man is a fossil. He can't keep us quiet long enough to _teach_ us anything!"  
  
Jean Villenar, sitting next to Reyer, cracked a grin. "He's been with the Opera Populaire since before they rebuilt the House. Deschanel's a relic of the old glory days—of _course_ they won't let him go. Unless he dies or retires. Whichever happens first."  
  
Reyer's snicker mirrored that of Georges Dubois, the young man seated on Jean's other side. Reyer and Georges had been at the conservatory together; he had made the acquaintance of the older Jean after joining the company of the Opera Populaire two years previously. Reyer was not particularly great friends with the two men—his slightly caustic personality seemed to be a birth trait rather than an acquired one—but he found them agreeable because they all had like minds. Jean was a career practical joker, and often took claim for little happenings attributed to the Opera Ghost. Georges was a natural mimic. Together with Reyer's years of honed sarcasm, they made a formidable team against anyone they might target for ridicule.  
  
Today that target was Monsieur Deschanel, the old chorus master. While not exactly doddering, the man was getting up in his years and was no longer able to exert sufficient control over the often-rowdy, fun-loving company. It was said that he had been a real firebrand in his day, but now Deschanel was past his prime. At present, he was late to begin the afternoon rehearsal.  
  
A grin still on his moustache-free face, Reyer glanced up a row and down the line at the aloof figure seated in the very last chair, back proudly straight, hair expensively done, bundle of music placed primly on the rich cloth of the skirt. Reyer's grin grew even wider.  
  
"Oh, Lotta…" It was almost a singsong. "Are we attempting to play diva as usual?"  
  
Carlotta Giudicelli, a year-old import from Italy, slowly slid her gaze from her music to Reyer in obvious disdain. "I _am_ a diva," she replied haughtily.  
  
Georges rolled his eyes; Reyer's grin remained plastered on his face. "Yes, you certainly are," he said in the same singsong, layered now with a patronizing undertone. "And pray tell, just _where_ are you a diva, again?"  
  
Carlotta glared daggers at him. "You do not understand. I am very famous in Italy. Only, my fame has not yet reached here."  
  
"Translation: It will _never_ reach here." Reyer and Georges shared a good laugh. Carlotta colored in anger and turned her attention back to her music with a little 'hmmph!'  
  
"Can you believe it?" Reyer chuckled in a low voice, abandoning the singsong tone. "She thinks she's better than the rest of us lot just because her family has money and she received a few good reviews back home!"  
  
Georges bobbed his head in agreement, but Jean looked a trifle uneasy. "Maybe you oughtn't tease Carlotta so much, Martin," he said. "I hear her family has powerful friends even here, and that influence could mean bad things for you when she becomes more successful."  
  
Reyer looked at him incredulously. "Whose side are you on here? Carlotta has no future in Paris! I don't pretend to know how things work in old Italy, but here you need talent to succeed, and she has none—"  
  
"She has a voice, and she has ambition," Jean said seriously. "Just be a little less nasty to her, is all I'm saying. You never know what will happen in opera."  
  
"Well, I _do_ know what will happen here." Reyer smiled and stretched in his chair. "Mark my words, gentlemen: When Carlotta finally realizes that Paris doesn't love her half as much as Rome, she will leave. Her star will never rise at the Opera Populaire."  
  
  
Reyer had cause to regret those words several months later, in the fall. The Opera was just preparing to begin a new season; Reyer was fresh off a minor success in one of the last production's featured roles, while Carlotta had graduated to supporting roles. Usually, a few members of the company departed at the end of each season for various reasons, but this year an abnormally large percentage was leaving, many of the female. Many new conservatory graduates were being called upon to replace them. It was amidst this casting shuffle that Reyer found himself called to the manager's office.  
  
When he arrived, Monsieur Lefévre was regarding a few papers laid out atop his desk. Then he looked up. "Martin Reyer? Good. Please, have a seat." Lefévre waved him to one of two chairs placed in front of the desk; Reyer sat. The portly manager glanced one more time at the papers before him, then folded his hands and looked across at Reyer, clearing his throat as he began.  
  
"As you may know, the Opera has been undergoing some changes as of late, namely in the company of singers. Many longtime members are leaving to seek out new endeavors elsewhere. This has necessitated the hiring of some new faces to the world of opera. Decisions have been made, and we… I… feel that a fresh, new company would be good for the Opera Populaire. Now, I know your tenure here has been relatively short, though successful and productive, but…"  
  
Here Lefévre paused. Reyer said nothing. He merely stared back at the man, stony-faced. He didn't have to be an idiot to intuitively know what was coming. Surprisingly, he remained calm; although his stomach was sinking, Reyer felt curiously empty for someone who was about to be declared unemployed.  
  
Lefévre cleared his throat again and shuffled the papers on his desk. "I am unhappy to tell you that you were to be released from the Opera Populaire's employment. However, another position has just recently opened that we are in immediate need of filling."  
  
Reyer found his voice. "And what position might that be?" he asked coldly, in a tone tinged with bitterness.  
  
"You may be aware that Monsieur Deschanel, the chorus master, is retiring." Lefévre looked down at the top letter of the pile on his desk, then eyed Reyer in a most curious manner. "You have been, ah, _recommended_ for the job."  
  
  
A week later Reyer sat in his new office, staring at the score for Chalumeau's _Hannibal_ that rested upon the otherwise empty desk. Morning rehearsal was due to begin in just a few minutes. It would be Reyer's first rehearsal as the new chorus master of the Opera Populaire.  
  
He'd had a week to adjust to his new job and familiarize himself with _Hannibal_'s score, an entire week during which news and rumors traveled quickly. That was how he'd heard of Carlotta Giudicelli's sudden rise in company hierarchy. A debilitating accident had befallen the Opera's leading lady; due to the absence of the company's other principal sopranos, Carlotta had risen to become the newest prima donna. By default, of course, but some whispered that the Italian singer had machinated the entire episode. Others claimed the accident was the work of the Opera Ghost. Reyer's own words simply came back to haunt him. _Her star will never rise at the Opera Populaire…_  
  
He wondered if it was a coincidence that he had been fired—and then re-hired—just a day after Carlotta's ascendance to the top. And then he wondered if perhaps antagonizing her so in the past had been such a smart move after all. But at the moment that contemplation ranked among the least pressing of his issues. Ignoring the whispers about himself—that he hadn't been talented enough to make the cut to stay in the company; that the Opera Ghost itself had ordered him hired as chorus master; that Carlotta was indeed behind everything and planned to make his life a living hell—was more important than wondering if his past actions were foolish or not.  
  
Another minute ticked by; Reyer continued to stare at the score on his desk, steeling himself for the events to come. He always hated to admit to any weaknesses he might have, but at the moment he was profoundly nervous. He didn't know a thing about running a rehearsal or teaching others to sing music, not really, though he supposed his own learning experiences at the conservatory would do as a basis. Part of him feared the inevitable whispering while his back was turned, and the possibility of more failure. Hell, he wasn't even thirty years old—no one would respect and obey a teacher so young!  
  
Reyer shifted—a mite uncomfortably, a mite determinedly—in his chair. He may be nervous, but the one trait he possessed in a larger degree than natural sarcasm was pride. _Well. I will no longer accept failure on my part. I must give them a_ reason _to respect me._  
  
He pulled a pocket watch—the only ornate thing about his mode of dress; it was a gold-plated engraved timepiece—out of his vest pocket and glanced at the time. Then he replaced it and stood, picking up the _Hannibal_ score and mentally reciting a litany he had been repeating to himself for the last hour.  
  
_I am now the chorus master. I am now in a position whose former occupant was heavily ridiculed by myself and the rest of the company. I will not allow myself to be subjected to the same ridicule. I will not allow myself to be run over or be taken advantage of, as Monsieur Deschanel was. I will run productive rehearsals. I will not be a failure. I will forget that I was ever a singer, and simply be the chorus master._  
  
Almost as an afterthought, Reyer picked up his favorite bowler hat and put it on. Then he opened his office door and walked out into the hallway, heading for the rehearsal room.  
  
He made it a point to arrive exactly on time and not early, for he had no wish to be the object of gossiping eyes for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Upon entering the room Reyer saw that the entire company was assembled and that his presence had been noted; however, every single occupant of the room blatantly ignored him, continuing to carry on their own conversations. It was a rude breach of rehearsal etiquette, and a breach that Reyer had helped to commit on numerous occasions in the past, but Reyer was not Monsieur Deschanel. And Monsieur Deschanel was no longer running these rehearsals.  
  
Reyer placed the score upon the rehearsal piano, observed the hubbub around him, and silently counted to ten. Then he briefly closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and roared at the top of his lungs, _"QUIET!"_  
  
Every single conversation in the room died away in an instant as a sea of stunned eyes came to rest on the short, slight, yet still imposing figure standing by the piano.  
  
Reyer waited until he had everyone's attention, then coughed, loud in the sudden silence. "I am Monsieur Reyer, the new chorus master. While you are in this room, you come under my command. I will not tolerate misbehavior. From this moment on you will conduct yourselves as befits as professional opera company. You are here to rehearse, not to socialize. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"  
  
A forest of heads nodded mutely. And thus the legend of the tyrannical, bowler hat-wearing chorus master was born…   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*   
  
_Summer 1881, Present Day_  
  
"… Monsieur Reyer?"  
  
Reyer blinked, jerked his head up from where it had been resting heavily in his hands; the fall of 1872 vanished into the mists of time and suddenly he was back in the gruesome present of 1881. Someone had been knocking on his door. With a start, he recognized the hesitant, slightly unsteady voice out in the corridor as belonging to Christine Daaé. How long had he been daydreaming? Long enough for her to recover enough from her psychological beating to venture from her own hiding place, apparently.  
  
"Go away," he growled, loud enough for his voice to carry through the wooden door. Reyer stared around his office, taking in nine years' worth of accumulated detritus with blind eyes. He didn't want to see a single soul, least of all Christine Daaé, yet another reminder of his failures in life; she was most likely still weepy and puffy-faced as it was, and he had no desire to deal with such a creature. Not now. Not ever.  
  
There was a short silence. Then Christine's wavery voice floated through the door again. "Are you all right? The… the managers need to see you…"  
  
Something inside Reyer snapped. _You are not needed, and you are useless…_ Abruptly pulled from his state of lethargy, he hurled himself out of his chair and across the small room to fling the door open so violently it nearly came off its hinges. As he expected, Reyer found himself face-to-face with Christine. Her gray eyes were large and watery, her hand poised as if to knock again, suddenly frozen by his thunderous appearance.  
  
"Are you so infinitely _stupid_ as to not understand my simply words, you little halfwit?!" he yelled in a curiously breaking voice. "I told you to go away! The managers do not need me—_no one_ does! Now get out of my sight before I am forced to do something rash!" Reyer planted a hand square on Christine's breastbone and shoved her backwards so hard she hit the far wall of the corridor, then slammed the door shut with a force that seemed to rattle the entire building.  
  
As soon as the door was closed Reyer found himself sinking into the overstuffed armchair in a daze. He was breathing hard. He'd never actually struck a woman before. Granted, he had imagined doing as such—and worse—to Carlotta in the past. But hitting his very own student had never entered his mind before, not even in her most trying moments, not even the day of her first lesson when she had snuck up on him as he sat at the piano.  
  
And then it occurred to him that he was actually thinking about the fact that he'd hit Christine.  
  
Normally Reyer went about without a second thought as to his actions, blithely ignoring the consequences and acquiring a reputation as a stone-hearted autocrat with a sharper tongue than La Carlotta's in the process. But as he sat there attempting to recollect his shattered dignity, he realized that not only did he feel his dignity injured over this incident, but that he was experiencing a vastly foreign emotion because of it… shame.  
  
He was ashamed. He, Reyer, who had practically never taken another person's feelings into account in his entire life, was feeling ashamed for yelling at—not to mention hitting—a woman, something he did an average of six times any given work day. Nothing of consequence. But suddenly very consequential.  
  
No sound came from the hallway. Reyer had a sudden urge to look and see if Christine was still there, and attempt to apologize. But if his dignity was in disrepair, his enormous pride was less so, and that pride would not allow him to even think about opening that door for at least half an hour. Add to that the fact that 'apology' was not a word that existed in Reyer's vocabulary. No, he couldn't possibly.  
  
And yet, he still wanted to apologize to her somehow.  
  
Why did that notion unnerve him so greatly?   
  
  



	8. Teacher of Music Part Eight

Teacher of Music, Part Eight  
_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
"Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look or bear to think of me..."  
The Phantom of the Opera_, Act One Scene Six

  
  
  
"That didn't go very well, did it?" Madame Giry said, somewhat ruefully. "I apologize, my dear. Perhaps I should have gone for Monsieur Reyer instead of sending you."  
  
Christine only sniffled miserably; Meg patted her arm comfortingly. The stunned young woman had retreated to the sanctuary of Madame Giry's small office after Monsieur Reyer had exploded in her face, and her combined shock and hurt had once again given way to tears.  
  
When Carlotta had finished thoroughly deconstructing Christine in front of what felt to her like the entirety of Paris, she had fled in a blind rush to the dressing room she had used to prepare for _Hannibal_ the night before. There she had flung herself onto the little chair by the vanity table and proceeded to sob until she thought her lungs would burst, silently berating herself, Carlotta, her dead father, the obviously nonexistent Angel of Music, and society at large. _What did I do to deserve this?_ she wanted to scream. _I was wrong, wasn't I, Papa? I haven't been touched by the Angel of Music. I never will be! He doesn't even really exist, does he, Papa? You made him up, he's only a silly fairy tale… why, oh why did you lie to me…?_  
  
Joseph Arsenault had discovered her in that sorry state, seeking her out after sufficiently recovering from the stunned state Carlotta's fury had cast upon the company. News traveled like lightning at the Opera, and soon, not only Joseph but Meg, the conservatory kid, two sympathetic stagehands, and three other chorus members had all crowded into the little dressing room, trading horror stories and attempting to cheer Christine up. After some time Madame Giry appeared and made it known that the management wished to see Monsieur Reyer, but that the chorus master seemed to have all but vanished. Joseph described the way Reyer had dismissed everyone; Madame Giry suggested that, if she felt up to it, Christine should go see if he was in his office and, if so, relay the message.  
  
At the time, Christine figured Madame Giry's reasoning was that she was most likely one of the few Opera employees Reyer would receive amicably. Now, it seemed as if the ballet mistress had made a serious error in judgement on that part.  
  
"No, don't be sorry," Christine replied after a moment of silence, wiping at an errant tear with one thin hand. "It's not your fault. I'm sure he didn't mean to be so violent, it's just… what did I do? Did I say something wrong? The expression on his face—it was as if he _hated_ me!"  
  
"He hates himself." Madame Giry shook her head slightly. "Though I don't think he is quite aware of it."  
  
Both Christine and Meg turned questioning eyes upon her. "What do you mean by that?" Christine asked, bunching the handkerchief she held in one fist.  
  
Wordlessly, Madame Giry opened a desk drawer, reaching in to unearth a small, thin booklet. She passed it across to Christine, who curiously took it. Drying her eyes quickly with the handkerchief, she saw that it was an old opera program, dated 1870—eleven years in the past. She looked up at Madame Giry. "I don't understand what this has to do with—"  
  
Madame Giry merely lifted her eyebrows. "Turn to the cast list."  
  
Uncertainly, Christine flipped to the indicated page, unsure of what she was supposed to be looking for. She ran her finger down the names of listed principals, seeing no one she recognized, but stopped when she came to a particular faded name under the heading 'male chorus': _Martin Reyer_. Christine mouthed the name silently, then looked up again and repeated it aloud. "Reyer, Martin Reyer… that's him, isn't it? He never told me that he was once a singer here…"  
  
It was the first piece of information she'd learned about Reyer in ages—in fact, it suddenly struck her that despite almost three and a half months of fairly close association, she knew almost nothing about him at all. She had no clear knowledge of his likes and dislikes, his past history; no knowledge at all about where he was from, where he lived, what he did in his spare time—if he, in fact, had any of that at all… And then a memory came back to haunt her: _You have a nice voice…_ Christine had heard Monsieur Reyer sing countless times since that day, over the course of her lessons, but it had never occurred to her that he had once been a singer by profession. It was as if he had always been the testy chorus master, bowler hat in place and score in hand, and would continue to be so forever. "He has a nice voice," she said aloud, softly.  
  
"He does." Madame Giry nodded. "And perhaps the day would have come for him to triumph in a lesser role and be promoted to one of the leading tenors… but God had other plans in store for him." She waved a hand. "Look further down the page."  
  
Christine did as she was told, and when her finger reached the heading for 'female chorus' her mouth fell open in surprise. "Carlotta Giudicelli? Monsieur Reyer and Carlotta were in the chorus together?" Her brow furrowed. "But I don't understand why you're showing me this… why would he hate himself…"  
  
Her voice trailed off as Meg suddenly spoke. "I remember," she said, almost musingly. "Mother—if I may?"  
  
Madame Giry gave silent assent for her daughter to explain. Meg turned in her chair to face Christine. "I was just a little girl then, only a student dancer, but I remember because the older dancers whispered about it for weeks." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "A lot of the singers were leaving after this one production finished—I think it was about nine years ago. Carlotta was promoted to leading soprano. There were all sorts of rumors about how she managed that, all of them probably untrue, but… Anyway, Carlotta didn't like Monsieur Reyer. He must have done something very horrible to her, because once she was in a position to make others do what she wanted, Carlotta convinced Monsieur Lefevre to put him out of employment."  
  
Christine had placed the old program on the edge of Madame Giry's desk and now sat looking at her hands, resting in her lap. "It must have been terrible for him," she murmured, feeling a deep pity for her teacher. She knew all too well what it was like to have one's dreams snatched away…  
  
"But as it happened," Meg was continuing, "the old chorus master was retiring, and someone was needed quickly to replace him… so Monsieur Lefevre just rewrote Monsieur Reyer's contract. And he has been the terror of all the misbehaving singers ever since."  
  
Christine frowned faintly, thinking. "I knew Monsieur Reyer and Carlotta disliked each other, but I always assumed it was because she was so rude to him all the time. I had no idea that they have been enemies for so long." Suddenly she drew in a quick little breath, as if she'd just been arrested by an idea. _I do believe we could_ make _you a threat to La Carlotta…_  
  
"You know," she said slowly, biting her lip and looking over at Madame Giry, "when Monsieur Reyer first offered to give me lessons, I thought he only wanted to keep Carlotta from disrupting rehearsals… but then at my first lesson he gave me Elissa's third act aria to sing. After that we did work on pieces to help improve my breathing and technical ability, but mostly—it was all Carlotta's music." She paused. "And then Carlotta left…"  
  
Suddenly Christine's eyes grew wide. "Why, he did it—he did everything on purpose! He _used_ me, didn't he?" She shot a glance at Meg, who was now somewhat guiltily studying the carpeting on the floor, and then at Madame Giry, and her hand flew to her mouth. "And you knew about it!"  
  
"You mustn't think of it that way, my dear," Madame Giry said soothingly, hoping to counteract the deeply wounded expression on Christine's face. "Even if that was Monsieur Reyer's intention, he would never have given you that music if he did not think you capable of it. And even so, you were prepared to take over Carlotta's role, and to triumph in it—thank him for that, at least."  
  
"And look what good it's brought me," Christine muttered angrily, pressing her knuckles to her teeth to ward off another onslaught of tears. "I'm not any better off than when I started!"  
  
Meg quickly laid a hand on her friend's arm. "But you _are_, Christine! You can sing so much better now, and after this week you'll be with the rest of the singers, where you belong! Don't worry a bit about Carlotta—she's just jealous, and everyone knows now that you're better than she is. Do cheer up… things aren't all bad."  
  
Christine drew in a few deep breaths, then lowered her hand from her mouth and managed to keep her composure. "Thank you, Meg," she said quietly. "I can't tell you what your friendship means to me."  
  
Meg smiled and pressed Christine's hand. "Don't think too badly of Monsieur Reyer," she said. "I know his intentions were good."  
  
The door to Madame Giry's office abruptly burst open, admitting a bubbly, auburn-haired ballet dancer with a high-pitched giggle for a voice. "Madame Giry!" the girl exclaimed, half-falling into the room. "You wouldn't believe—"  
  
"Manners, Giselle," Madame Giry interjected sternly.  
  
Giselle lowered her voice and collected herself with a sheepish squeak, then indicated Christine. "Madame Giry, the Vicomte de Chagny is looking for Christine!"  
  
Meg grinned broadly. "He must like you _very_ much if he's this persistent!" she whispered to Christine.  
  
Christine was clenching her skirt in indecision. She was afraid to see Raoul after so rudely ditching him the night before, and hesitant to rekindle a relationship that really had no future, but he would be a kind face… "Where is he?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Out in the hallway!" chirped Giselle. "I'll go fetch him!" She turned and bounced out the door. "Monsieur le Vicomte!" came the excited cry. "Christine is in Madame Giry's office!" After a moment the dancer re-entered, with Raoul de Chagny close behind.  
  
Madame Giry nodded. "Thank you, Giselle."  
  
It was a clear dismissal, and the young woman tripped from the room, no doubt en route to the ballet studio to share this latest bit of gossip.  
  
Meanwhile, Raoul was fussing. "Christine, you look a fright!" he exclaimed, kneeling at her side in concern. "Whatever happened?" If he had intended to ask about the previous night's disappearing act, any inquiry he might have made was silenced at the sight of Christine's sorrowful, pitiable form.  
  
Christine didn't look at him but instead focused on the pattern of her dress, clenching her hands more tightly around the material. "Carlotta…" Her arm throbbed with the memory of the diva's grip, and tears again flared in her eyes. "And… and Monsieur Reyer yelled at me…"  
  
Her face crumpled and Raoul took her hands comfortingly. "Shh, don't cry," he said. "I think I know just the thing to cheer you up. If you're free, I would be more than happy to take you outdoors for a stroll…"  
  
Christine fought furiously to put a lid on her misery and looked up at Madame Giry, who favored her with a rare smile. "You need some fresh air, my dear," the ballet mistress said gently. "You are excused from rehearsal today. I believe you know your steps well enough to perform with the ballet tonight."  
  
Christine hesitated, but a sudden vision of Reyer's fury was enough to quell her doubts. Yes, a walk in the sun, away from the Opera and from Carlotta, would do her good. And as much as she knew she shouldn't, she _did_ want to talk with Raoul. He was an old friend, after all… "I would be happy to go," she said unsteadily, wiping at her eyes.  
  
Raoul's face lit up. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed, standing and offering a hand to help Christine to her feet as well. "You'll be smiling again in no time, you'll see. Let me inform the management that I will be out should they have need of me, and I'll meet you on the front steps in, say, ten minutes?"   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
"I can't tell you how surprised I was to see your name in the program," Raoul was saying a short time later as he sat with Christine at an outdoor café near the Opera. Shortly after setting out, she had admitted that she had eaten nothing since at least noon the previous day, and Raoul had insisted on taking her out to eat. For her part, Christine insisted that he not spend a great deal of money on her. So while the café Raoul had chosen was not a terribly expensive one, it was still not an establishment Christine would have been able to afford under normal circumstances.  
  
"…Especially that you were a member of the corps de ballet," Raoul continued. "You sang when I first knew you, and you quite obviously have continued to do so"—at those words he smiled as if voicing a severe understatement—"yet… I don't understand. Haven't you been training in voice? When did you become a dancer?"  
  
Christine hesitated slightly, then smiled wanly and briefly looked aside. "I did begin to study voice at the conservatory, but midway through my first year I was transferred to the ballet school." She laughed depreciatingly, remembering the derision of her fellow dance students and the nights spent crying herself to sleep. "I don't know why—no one would answer my questions. I have continued to study voice, mostly only, though… for the past few months I _have_ had a teacher."  
  
Raoul still looked faintly puzzled, but he was smiling. "After your performance last night, I can't imagine why any sane person in their right mind would ever dismiss your talent as a singer. Your instructors surely must have been deaf—but I think it's wonderful that you're studying again. Might I ask who your teacher is?"  
  
Suddenly, inexplicably, Christine found herself embarrassed. Doubtlessly Raoul imagined that her teacher would be well-known and respected… rather than a feared local character, which was a much more accurate description of Monsieur Reyer. She felt her cheeks color, burning in a sense of betrayal as much as embarrassment, and she looked aside again. "You might know his name… he's Monsieur Reyer, the Opera's chorus master…"  
  
"_That_ man is your teacher?" Raoul reared back in his seat, a wide-eyed expression of surprise on his face. "He's hardly a polite fellow, is he? I honestly thought he was going to strike Carlotta Giudicelli earlier this morning—"  
  
Too late, Christine remembered her promise of silence. "Quiet, Raoul!" she hissed. "You mustn't tell a soul! I promised him that I wouldn't speak of my lessons to anyone. He would be terribly angry with me if he discovered that anyone knew." She paused in her haste. "What do you mean, he nearly struck Carlotta?"  
  
Raoul's expression bespoke a mixture of awe, amusement and something akin to disgust. "There was quite a charming gathering in the managerial suite this morning," he said dryly. "Carlotta doesn't quite like you, does she? She wanted to put you back in the ballet corps immediately, but your Monsieur Reyer was very much against it—as was I," he added hastily.  
  
_He was?_ Christine thought, her spirits lifting for a second before the bitterness came flooding back in. _He probably only wants me around to upstage Carlotta again… I wouldn't even be surprised if he no longer wished to teach me…_  
  
Why did that thought leave her feeling so empty?  
  
Raoul was continuing. "He was defending your artistic abilities quite staunchly, they traded insults, and he came rather close to violence." He coughed behind one hand. "He seems like quite a hot-headed character… he doesn't treat you badly, does he?"  
  
"Oh, no!" Christine cried, a little surprised at the question. "He is a very demanding teacher, and he does have an excitable temper, but he can be quite kind at times…" She gave a little sigh, hoping some of the hurt from Reyer's explosion and her subsequent discovery of his true motives would dissipate, but it remained a dull ache in her heart. Still, she was once more heartened by Raoul's words. Why would Monsieur Reyer defend her, if she was nothing more than a tool to him? "I'm very grateful for everything that he's done for me." A pause. "Please promise that you won't speak of this?"  
  
Raoul was quiet for a long moment, an indeterminable expression on his face. Then he looked at Christine so seriously it caused her to squirm uncomfortably in her seat. "You're speaking the truth when you say he doesn't mistreat you? You said he yelled at you…"  
  
"He did," Christine murmured, trailing one finger around the edge of her teacup, feeling again the force of Reyer's hand as he pushed her away… hearing the high, sharp tone of his voice as the office door slammed shut. Despite his occasional displays of temper, she instinctively felt that such a show was very much unlike him. Underneath the fury, she sensed, there was a hidden layer of pain. Reyer hadn't been angry… he'd been _upset_. Not for the first time, Christine wished that she knew exactly what Carlotta had said to him in the corridor outside the rehearsal room that morning.  
  
"He did," she repeated after a moment. "But he wasn't in a particularly good humor at the time, even by his standards. He often yells, you know," she added, and suddenly smiled—a very small smile, yet a genuine one nonetheless. In that moment, she knew, she had forgiven Monsieur Reyer for his deceptions. "And not just at me—at everyone. I don't think I've ever seen him truly calm or relaxed."  
  
Raoul returned the smile, his expression softening back into one of cheerfulness. He gazed silently at Christine for a moment. "It _is_ so wonderful to see you again, Christine. You've changed so much, and it's been so long—I haven't seen you since… since your father's passing."  
  
Almost immediately he looked as if he wished he could take those last words back, for he knew how much her father's death had affected her. But Christine, though a brief, intense wave of sadness did wash over her, managed to keep her expression light. "Raoul, I'm sorry about last night—I just panicked, I—"  
  
He held up a hand to silence her. "I won't ask, and you don't have to explain," he replied, entirely without rancor. "I realize how much of a presuming cad I was. I'm just delighted to be able to sit and talk with you in any setting. We have so much to catch up on—I want to hear all about what you've done since we last saw each other."  
  
Raoul reached over to briefly squeeze her hand, and Christine reflected that, regardless of either of their past or present feelings and social standings, it really was good to have him back in her life after all.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
Backstage that night, Christine sat alone, plucking at the slender beaded ropes of her slave girl costume as she waited for the curtain to rise. Out in front, the managers were announcing the return of Carlotta Giudicelli and Ubaldo Piangi to their starring roles. Christine didn't pay attention to the applause that followed. Instead, she was trying to make it look as if she was not, in fact, watching Monsieur Reyer. The chorus master was standing several feet away and speaking to a group of the men's chorus in what sounded like, even to Christine's distant ears, extremely clipped tones. As of yet, he hadn't said anything to her. He hadn't even so much as looked at her. For her part, Christine had been afraid to approach him. It seemed as if he was actually studiously ignoring her presence. But what had she done that was so terribly wrong? Was she mistaken—did he truly no longer want to teach her?  
  
Before she could sink further into her agonized thoughts, however, Joseph Arsenault appeared at her side. "Rather unenthusiastic, that, if you ask me," he muttered, nodding in the direction of the front curtain as the audience applause drew to a close. "I think they might actually miss us. How are you?" he asked more gently, taking in Christine's downcast expression.  
  
Christine sighed and looked up at him; he was no longer clad as Hannibal, but instead was dressed as Dido. The conservatory kid had, of course, been relegated back to the chorus. "I'm… well, I'd like to apologize to Monsieur Reyer for disturbing him this morning, but—I think he's purposely ignoring me."  
  
Joseph glanced over at Reyer, who was now standing alone and drumming the fingers of one hand across the top of the score he held. To Christine's surprise, the baritone's face broke out into a grin. "Yes, it's odd, isn't it?" Joseph chuckled. "He _has_ been acting strangely. If it were possible, I'd say the man's mortified! Just give him time to come around, Christine. I'm sure things will be right tomorrow."  
  
"I do hope so," Christine replied quietly, also glancing at Reyer. If the chorus master knew he was being discussed, he gave no sign of it.  
  
Joseph knelt so he could look Christine in the eyes. "Don't let Carlotta get to you," he said seriously. "You were magnificent yesterday, you truly were. Besides, Carlotta won't be here forever—but either way, I believe you have a bright future ahead of you."  
  
Christine found herself suddenly choking back tears. "Thank you," she managed, as Joseph enfolded her in a brief hug. "You're entirely too kind."  
  
"No, I just speak the truth." Joseph patted her back once, then stood and adjusted his costume. "Good luck to you tonight, Christine."  
  
"And to you," she said, quickly wiping at her eyes as Joseph went to take his place onstage for the opening scene.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
Throughout the course of the performance, Christine had plenty of opportunities to bump into Monsieur Reyer as she passed on and off the stage. Still he ignored her, averting his eyes if he happened to see her coming or brushing past her with nary a glance.  
  
Unfortunately, she also had plenty of opportunities to run into Carlotta; the diva never missed a chance to bestow a withering look or scathing remark, clearly enjoying the taunting as much as Christine so dearly wished to avoid it.   
  
As a result of both sets of encounters, by night's end Christine was so badly disheartened she could barely hold herself together at the curtain call. As soon as she was able, she dashed offstage to the safety of the little dressing room at the end of the corridor, collapsing in tears as soon as she was inside. She cried for what seemed a long time, wanting nothing more than to put the day behind her and start anew, crying tears of shame and humiliation and the possibility of having lost a friend she wasn't entirely sure she'd had in the first place.   
  



	9. Teacher of Music Part Nine

  


Teacher of Music, Part Nine  
_By Allison E. Lane   
  
  
"A disaster beyond your imagination will occur."  
The Phantom of the Opera_, Act One Scene Eight

  
  
  
The following morning, Christine stood awkwardly in front of the door to Monsieur Reyer's office, shifting on her feet and biting her lip nervously. She'd reported to ballet rehearsal once arriving at the Opera, and Madame Giry had been midway through leading the dancers in their warm-up exercises when Monsieur Gabriel appeared, stating that the chorus master wished to see Christine Daae at once. Christine had followed the conductor with more than a bit of trepidation; however, Gabriel wore no air of doom and gloom but instead was his usual collected self. He'd excused himself with a kind smile once they'd reached Reyer's office, leaving Christine alone to wallow in her anxiety. She'd been trying to prepare herself for the worst since the previous night, since a meeting between them was inevitable, but still…  
  
Finally, she drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door, more timidly than she had meant to do.  
  
From within, there was a great rustling of papers. "What?"  
  
At least Monsieur Reyer _sounded_ like his usual irritable self. "May I come in?" Christine asked, looking down at her feet and feeling ridiculous for having to speak to the door.  
  
There came the sound of more rustling, followed by a muffled thud. "By all means, do," the dry voice replied, and Christine twisted the door handle with a white hand and hesitantly stepped inside.  
  
Monsieur Reyer was seated behind his desk, studying some papers with his customary can't-be-bothered air. At her entrance he looked up, paused in the act of placing aside a pen, and made a noise that—oddly enough—sounded as if he were choking back laughter. Christine froze, stricken. Reyer's sides shook ever so slightly for a moment before he regained control of himself. "That doesn't suit you," he said finally, the barest hint of a smile playing about his lips.  
  
"What?—Oh." Christine looked down at herself, realizing she was still clad in her white practice costume with its fluffy skirt, and blushed scarlet.  
  
Reyer indicated the guest armchair, obviously further amused by her discomfiture, and said, "Sit down. We have a few matters to discuss."  
  
Heart sinking, Christine sat. Had he asked her here only to laugh at her, then dismiss her entirely?  
  
Folding his hands on the desktop, Reyer cleared his throat. "Firstly, the managers will wish to see you at a later time this week to finalize the details of your new contract. You are aware that there will be a two-week break between productions once _Hannibal_ is finished?"  
  
Christine nodded mutely.  
  
Reyer selected a few papers from the top of a stack on his desk and handed them across, then began rooting around the debris surrounding his desk in search of something else. "Those are the notes I made on your performance as Elissa," he said distractedly, as Christine examined the choppy, clipped handwriting. "Of course, they're rather pointless now from a progress point of view, but you should still find them useful." At long last, he unearthed a thick score and pushed it across the desk towards her. "Our next production will be _Il Muto_. I don't know yet what role you will play, but since Carlotta will undoubtedly be given the role of the Countess, I should like to begin working on that with you as soon as possible."  
  
Christine's heart leapt—she could scarcely believe her ears. "You mean you still wish to teach me?" she blurted.  
  
Reyer gave her a look that suggested, in his eyes, she had just sprouted wings and a beak. "Of course," he said, a bit shortly. "What did you expect?"  
  
_Given your behavior, I expected that you never wanted to speak to me again!_ Chagrined, Christine stammered, "It's just that—well—I—I'm sorry for disturbing you yesterday—"  
  
Reyer waved a hand sharply. "Don't apologize," he snapped. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, or perhaps bite back what he had just said. Instead, he reached down to pick up a package from beneath his desk and fairly shoved it towards Christine as if holding it burned his hands, saying stiffly, "This is for you."  
  
Christine blinked at him in surprise, but he was suddenly absorbed in scribbling something on a piece of paper. Curiously, she set aside the score and notes and reached over to pick up the box. It was a medium-sized box wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string. Carefully undoing the wrapping, glancing up at Reyer every other second, Christine lifted the box's lid—and gasped.  
  
Nestled inside was a brand-new pair of toe shoes.  
  
Nearly speechless, Christine swiftly looked up at Monsieur Reyer, but he was still studiously writing across the paper before him. "F-For me?" she managed.  
  
"They'll last you through the rest of this week, I expect," he replied, as if his buying her toe shoes was a perfectly normal thing. He set down his pen and folded his hands once again on the desktop, glancing up at the ceiling as he did so—in fact, it seemed to Christine that he was purposely attempting to look anywhere but at her. For some reason, it made her smile. His gaze flickered towards her but shot upwards again the moment their eyes met. With a start, Christine realized that he was almost acting contrite.  
  
_He's apologizing_, she thought suddenly. _Apologizing the only way he knows how—without words._  
  
"Thank you," she said warmly, fingering a ribbon off one of the shoes, and saw Reyer's shoulders relax infinitesimally.  
  
"You're quite welcome," he replied roughly, and in his posture Christine could sense the unspoken addendum: _And don't you dare mention this ever again_. But then he smiled at her, briefly—and it was the only truly genuine smile he had ever given her.  
  
Quick as a flash, it was gone. Reyer began shifting papers again. "I won't bother you the rest of this week," he said, and his voice was once again short and indifferent. "However, I would like to start your lessons again next Monday. Is that acceptable?" He raised an eyebrow at her in query.  
  
Christine nodded and smiled, looking back at him with an entirely new look in her eyes.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
Andre looked at the envelope lying in the center of his desk, and his right eye twitched.  
  
"Richard…" he began.  
  
Firmin didn't even look up from his perusal of the morning newspapers. "I don't want to look at it," he growled. "You read it."  
  
Sighing, Andre picked up the envelope and shook out the single piece of folded paper within. Snapping the letter open with one hand, he adjusted his spectacles with the other and apprehensively began to read. _My dear messieurs Firmin and Andre:  
  
I was most disappointed to see Carlotta returned to her starring role last night. Neither was Piangi a sight for sore eyes. I had hoped you would have better artistic judgement—you do your more drastically talented replacement leads a great disservice. Perhaps in the future you will see fit to place Monsieur Arsenault and Mademoiselle Daae in more appropriate roles.  
  
It further displeases me to note that I have not yet been paid. Kindly leave the twenty thousand francs in an envelope in Box Five. I will give you until the end of the week, and if you have not paid me by then, I assure you that you will most certainly wish that you had.  
  
Sincerely yours,  
O.G._ Andre put the letter down and looked across at his fellow manager. Firmin was very pointedly reading the paper, and obviously did not want to know what the letter contained.  
  
"He wants to be paid," Andre said at length. "And he didn't like Carlotta."  
  
"Blather," Firmin spat. "Everyone loves Carlotta. The critics all agree. Have you not seen the newspapers this morning?"  
  
"No," Andre replied curiously.  
  
"Well, it's unanimous." Paper flew as Firmin sought out the pertinent columns. "La Carlotta a triumph, _Hannibal_ returns in splendor, the glory of Carlotta's golden throat, c'est magnifique! And no refunds. Last night's performance was splendid."  
  
"How odd," Andre murmured, thinking of the abrupt turn in favor from the opera critics. It was as if Daae and Arsenault had never performed. He cleared his throat. "Now, Richard, about this matter of the Opera Ghost—"  
  
"You mean extortionist—"  
  
"—I really don't like the tone of this letter." Andre picked it up and thrust it towards Firmin, who took it grudgingly. "What should we do? Of course there's no question of payment—we won't hand over a sou. But I can't think of a single way to flush this man out and force him to reveal himself, besides alerting the Surete. But that's not an option," he added hastily as Firmin's expression darkened. They had been over this before; it was Firmin's insistent opinion that calling in the gendarmerie would only cause them to look like fools. "Perhaps we could set a trap in Box Five? Leave an envelope stuffed with blank paper there, and find a place to hide and observe?"  
  
Firmin's mood lightened almost imperceptibly. "Would this work? When can we put this plan into effect?"  
  
Andre considered. "After the run of _Hannibal_ is finished, I should think. And during the day, when no one will be about the stage."  
  
Firmin regarded the letter a moment longer, snorted, and tossed it into the wastebin. Andre winced. "I like it," Firmin said gruffly. "And that will be the end of this nonsense for today. We need to be considering the Opera's next production. What about this girl—Daae? Has she signed her new contract yet?"  
  
"No." Andre shuffled papers, arranging them into neat piles, the subject of the Opera Ghost temporarily forgotten. "I can have Remy send for her now, if you like."  
  
"I _would_ like. Yes, yes, let's get this over and done with." Firmin cleared the newspapers off his desk with one sweep of his hand. "What a wretched, ridiculous business."  
  
"What's wretched?" Andre asked, confused. Was Firmin voluntarily bringing up the Opera Ghost?  
  
"This business with Daae is wretched, that's what!" Firmin exclaimed. "Honestly, Andre, do you believe it? A _chorus_ girl! A dancer! Thinking she can be a diva! She was fortunate—that's it. Plucking her from the ballet corps and making her understudy to Carlotta will only cause trouble for everyone."  
  
Taken aback, Andre raised his eyebrows at Firmin. "Are you implying that Mademoiselle Daae does not deserve to be Carlotta's understudy? For heaven's sake, the girl was amazing! She deserves much more than that—"  
  
Firmin harrumphed. "We absolutely cannot afford to place her in leading roles. Think of all the money we would lose without Carlotta Giudicelli as our headliner! Carlotta is a star. The public loves her. Replacing her with an unknown, untried dancer would be beyond the realm of folly—it would be financial suicide."  
  
It was on the tip of Andre's tongue to say that Carlotta didn't emerge from the womb a lauded soprano, but he chose to keep that particular comment to himself. Instead, he sighed and reached for the bell pull. "I'll have Remy fetch Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "And afterwards you can haggle all you wish over the new production."  
  
The bell was pulled, and a moment later Remy poked his fair head in the door. "Yes, messieurs?"  
  
"Go and find Christine Daae, if you would, please, Remy," Andre said. "We wish to see her over the matter of her new contract."  
  
"Yes, monsieur, right away." Remy closed the door behind him with a soft click.  
  
"I still say it's a disaster waiting to happen," Firmin grumbled.  
  
Andre said nothing, only frowned.   
  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
The week passed predictably enough. _Hannibal_ played every night to an enthusiastic audience, which Carlotta took every opportunity available to revel in. Christine's triumph as Elissa seemed all but forgotten. The managers spent the majority of their week in conference with the Opera's top creative staff, smoothing out the particulars of the new production. On Friday, a general announcement was made that the cast list for _Il Muto_ would be posted for all to see on Monday morning. Monsieur Andre looked faintly as if he'd swallowed a lemon. Monsieur Firmin looked oddly satisfied for once.  
  
Christine saw very little of Monsieur Reyer. If she did it was usually backstage during the performances. There was no time for words, but Christine found herself smiling at Reyer each time he happened to glance her way. For his part, he would merely nod in return, but there was no stiffness or arrogance in the gesture. She sensed it was as friendly as he would get.  
  
She missed her lessons terribly. It almost felt like her days were incomplete without a little of Reyer's goading and dry, scathing humor. In the past she had feared him, terrified of bringing his wrath down upon herself; but now, after having spent so much time in his company over the past three and a half months, Christine realized that Reyer wasn't nearly as terrible as she had thought him to be. Indeed, she found him curiously likable. Underneath the irritable callousness, the man had a heart. Granted, it was deeply buried, but every now and then Christine would catch a glimpse of it—in Reyer's insistence at escorting her home at night after lessons, the rare unguarded compliment, his gift of the toe shoes.  
  
She wished that she knew him better. After all the time they'd spent together, in lessons and during the rides home at night, she still did not really know her teacher at all. It was a thought that had been occurring to her with increasing frequency as of late, as it had at the beginning of the week in Madame Giry's office. Somehow, she felt guilty for it. Surely, though, Reyer considered her a friend? Did he consider _anyone_ a friend?  
  
Christine wanted very much for Monsieur Reyer to think of her as a friend. Perhaps it was because she had so few friends beyond mere acquaintances at the Opera. Or maybe it was because his tutorship meant so much to her. Whatever the reason, it was nearly laughable. She never would have imagined, four months ago, that she—much less anyone—would be agonizing over Monsieur Reyer's opinion of her! But suddenly, inexplicably, how Reyer thought of her was very, very important.  
  
She spent the weekend in nervous anticipation of Monday, tracing paths across the threadbare carpet of her small sitting room until she was certain she would explode. When Monday morning finally arrived, Christine fairly flew to the Opera House, excited yet afraid of what the day might hold in store for her.  
  
Almost immediately upon entering the Grand Foyer, Christine was set upon by the conservatory kid. "So there was a minor explosion in the managers' office this morning," he chattered excitedly, his youthful face flushed. "It was incredible! I don't think—"  
  
Christine had stopped and was looking at the kid strangely. "An _explosion?_" What could he possibly mean? No one was running about, there was no confusion or excitement, the Opera was perfectly quiet… an explosion?  
  
The kid understood her confusion and started laughing. "Oh, no, not that kind of explosion!" he exclaimed as he and Christine began to head up the staircase together. "What I meant was, there was a huge row in the managers' office. Monsieur Reyer came out breathing fire—I don't think I've ever seen him look so furious! I met him in the corridor as I was coming to collect my payroll and he nearly flattened me. I don't think he ever even saw me, he was so angry." The kid paused for breath as they reached the landing and started for the rehearsal rooms. "You don't suppose this has to do with the casting for _Il Muto_, do you?"  
  
"I don't know," Christine replied thoughtfully. So Reyer was in a particularly volcanic today… wonderful. What a wonderful way to begin her lessons again. "Have you seen Joseph this morning?"  
  
The kid opened his mouth to answer but was silenced by the sight of Joseph Arsenault hurrying down the corridor towards them. "Monsieur Remy's just posted the cast list!" he announced breathlessly, drawing even with Christine and the kid, then turning and shepherding them along with him. "Come, let's have a look, shall we?"  
  
A few other company members who'd turned up early were already gathered around the typewritten list that was tacked up to the notice board beside the door to the largest rehearsal room. "Oh, look," Joseph said dryly, his eyes automatically looking to the top of the list, "Carlotta's playing the Countess."  
  
"What a shocking surprise," rumbled the bass standing next to him.  
  
Christine was quick to point to the name directly below Carlotta's. "Joseph, you've got second billing—you've been cast as Don Attilio! That's wonderful!" Then she noticed her own name. "Third billing… playing Serafimo?"  
  
Joseph suddenly choked, his face coloring an interesting shade of pinkish gray.  
  
"That explains the explosion," the kid muttered, oddly subdued for once.  
  
Christine looked at the two of them in confusion as the bass gave her a sympathetic look and moved away. "What? What did I say?"  
  
Joseph cleared his throat with what appeared to be some difficulty. "Christine, are you familiar at all with this opera?"  
  
Christine shook her head. "Not particularly… why?"  
  
"Serafimo is the title character. The _mute!_ Do you know what that _means?_"  
  
Christine mutely shook her head again.  
  
Joseph heaved a heavy sigh. "Christine, dear… it means you have to kiss Carlotta."   
  



	10. Teacher of Music Part Ten

  


Teacher of Music, Part Ten  
_By Allison E. Lane   
"So, it is to be war between us!"  
The Phantom of the Opera_, Act One Scene Eight

  
Some time later, Christine sat dumbly at the piano as Monsieur Reyer raged about the small rehearsal room, snatching up random sheets of paper and shredding them in his fury. Already the floor was littered with bits of paper he'd torn and thrown and stamped on.   
  
"I'm going to have Firmin's throat, that's what," he growled, pacing around the room with short, jerky strides, crumbling yet another piece of paper into a compact ball. Christine silently plucked a loose thread off of her skirt. "That man! At least that idiot Andre has _some_ artistic sense, but Firmin! All he cares about is money!" Reyer's voice adopted a mocking tone. "'Carlotta makes us money, which keeps _you_ employed, I won't take any complaints from you'—complaints?! I'll go to my _grave_ complaining about that woman!"   
  
Paper began to fly as Reyer, having angrily straightened out the paper he'd crumpled, started to rip it apart. Christine managed to drag herself from her stupor and raised her head to look at him. "Perhaps it won't be so terrible," she attempted lamely; the words sounded hollow in her ears. "At least it's my own role—"   
  
Reyer laughed, and Christine jumped at the sound. It held no humor whatsoever, only bitterness and an odd tinge of old pain. "'Role'? My dear Mademoiselle Daae, Serafimo is not a _role_." He threw his hands up in the air, his dark chuckle abruptly gone, and paper once again rained down upon the floor. In two swift strides he crossed over to Christine and took her tightly by the shoulders.   
  
"They are making a _puppet_ of you," he said fiercely, his eyes boring into hers. "This is Monsieur Firmin's way of punishing you for daring to upstage his precious diva. All he cares for is money—not art—and so _your_ art is being sacrificed for _Carlotta's_ money."   
  
It was as if some dam in him had broken, and years of pent-up rage and frustration were finally being unleashed. Christine could hardly believe he was acting this way in front of her—while always very blunt and acidic in his commentary, and prone to fits of temper, Reyer was still normally reserved in his physical actions. This, however, was pure loss of control. Alarmed by the depth of intensity in his eyes, and acutely aware of his fingers digging into her skin, Christine reached up and carefully took hold of his wrists. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed and looked him square in the eyes. "But… surely… you're accustomed to art being pushed aside for profit by now? You're behaving as if this casting arrangement is the end of the world as we know it—"   
  
Reyer snatched his hands away from Christine's shoulders, but she still somehow managed to keep a hold on his wrists. Belatedly, she realized it was the first time she'd touched him of her own accord. "That woman," he spat, breathing heavily, "that _woman_ is a walking apocalypse. She spreads disease and entropy wherever she goes. And I'm sick of it, Christine. I'm sick and _tired_ of it."   
  
At his pronunciation of her name Christine flinched as if a spark had jumped from Reyer's hands to hers, and her eyes widened in surprise. Realizing he'd overstepped a boundary he'd never intended to cross, Reyer firmly extricated himself from Christine's grasp and stalked across to the far side of the room, leaning his weight against the wall on one arm and attempting to regain his composure. He'd never addressed Christine by her Christian name before. It just wasn't done—it wasn't _proper_. A teacher always maintained a professional relationship with his student, did he not? But like a fool, he'd let himself fly out of control, let the situation get out of hand. His anger at the management for assigning Christine the silent role behind his back, coupled with the sense of failure that seemed to pervade his life like a plague, had left him feeling curiously unhinged and somehow vulnerable. Reyer detested weakness of any kind in himself, and this wholly unfamiliar set of emotions—he didn't like them at all.   
  
Therefore, he didn't think about them. Forcibly, he buried the vulnerability beneath a veneer of stone. He had to regain control of himself—he couldn't go about spewing emotion like some kind of freakish human volcano. It wasn't done… it wasn't proper. Not proper at all.   
  
After a moment of awkward silence, her voice uneven, Christine ventured, "Maybe... maybe you could look on this as a blessing in disguise. You'll have one less person to trouble you in music rehearsals."   
  
Reyer snorted, a sharp sound that was almost--but not quite--a genuine laugh.   
  
There was a light rapping at the door, and they both looked to see Raoul de Chagny with his knuckles still resting against the frame. Christine blanched. She didn't even want to know how long he'd been standing there, what he might have seen of Reyer's tirade.   
  
"What?" Reyer asked shortly.   
  
"Begging your pardon," Raoul replied, with all the civility of a proper gentleman, "but might I have a word with Christine?"   
  
Christine glanced at Reyer, and was momentarily taken aback by the undisguised contempt in his eyes. It was clear he held no love for the vicomte. "If you feel you must," he said finally, and, stepping away from the wall, wordlessly began to clear away the mess he'd created.   
  
Joining Raoul just outside the door, Christine said quietly, "Don't mind him. He's in a bit of a temper."   
  
"This I can see," Raoul said dryly, arching his eyebrows at the quite obviously irritated chorus master. Reyer wasn't even attempting to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping on their conversation. "What is it now?"   
  
Christine sighed. There hadn't really been time enough yet to be disappointed with the role she'd been given in _Il Muto_, but now it was beginning to weigh down on her. "He's... not happy with the casting for _Il Muto_."   
  
"Ah." Raoul nodded in comprehension. "I know that you must be upset as well, but I think it's for the best." Seeing the look of betrayal that instantly flooded Christine's eyes, he raised a hand to halt her protest. "You can't replace Carlotta overnight," he said reasonably. "And despite what Monsieur Firmin thinks, she won't be here forever. Your time will come." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I have faith in that."   
  
Reyer cleared his throat loudly.   
  
Jumping, Christine guiltily dropped Raoul's hand. "You're right, of course," she murmured, looking down. That didn't make her disappointment any less, though. "But I had better go."   
  
"May I see you later?" Raoul pressed.   
  
Christine glanced quickly at Reyer, who was now seated at the piano, pointedly leafing through the score to _Il Muto_. "I don't know. We'll see?"   
  
Raoul nodded in consent. Smiling at Christine, he shot Reyer a brief, incomprehensible look, then was gone.   
  
"Are you quite finished yet?"   
  
Reyer was still studying the score, his back to Christine, for all appearances back to his normal self. But she knew better. Biting back a comment on his rudeness towards Raoul, chalking it up to the day's events, she went to stand beside him at the piano.   


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
"More jewels for the lady? Madame le Comtesse, surely you can afford to add just _one_ more ring to your bejeweled fingers?"   
  
"Back down, you silly oaf," Christine protested laughingly, waving her hands to fend off the conservatory kid's joking advances. A staging rehearsal was being held for the understudies, and Christine was waiting her turn while Madame Giry, who also served as the production's main choreographer in addition to her duties as ballet mistress, put the understudy Don Attilio through his paces. Joseph Arsenault stood nearby, ready to lend a hand to his counterpart when Madame Giry moved on. The conservatory kid was present in his role as the jeweler, as was Meg, and the two were sitting with Christine to help pass the time.   
  
They watched as the understudy stopped to consult Joseph's copy of the score, making notes in his own. "Carlotta is supposed to be here, isn't she?" Christine commented as their mirth faded.   
  
Meg scowled. "Of course she is," she replied darkly. "And she knows it, too. She's supposed to work with the understudy Don Attilio, and you're supposed to work with Joseph. Monsieur Reyer discussed this with the entire company at our last rehearsal. She can't pretend ignorance."   
  
The jeweler's bag clinked softly as the conservatory kid dropped it into his lap. "Then who will work with Arturo?" he asked, nodding at Joseph's understudy.   
  
Staring at the stocky baritone as he, Joseph, and Madame Giry conferred over the ballet mistress's open score, Christine felt her stomach sour. "That's the point of it," she replied quietly. It was just another passive act, one more inconvenience Carlotta had been causing her since rehearsals for _Il Muto_ had begun. "He'll have to work with me," she continued. "And that means we won't make very much progress, since I'm still learning my role as well."   
  
Meg continued to glower. Christine noticed that the look on Madame Giry's face wasn't too dissimilar as the woman looked around the stage and its environs, obviously searching for a sign of Carlotta and finding none.   
  
"She's determined to make this as difficult as possible for you, isn't she?" the kid mused, his eyes fully of sympathy.   
  
Christine bit her lip. "I'm afraid so. And I fear that it's not going to get any better than this."   


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
It didn't. Christine had to wonder whose idea it had been to cast her and Carlotta as illicit lovers, for surely any fool could see that there was absolutely no chance of them ever getting along. For the most part Christine managed to swallow her dislike and gamely play the part of lover in disguise. Carlotta, on the other hand, made no attempt whatsoever to hide her hatred for her understudy. She refused to even so much as touch Christine, merely mimicking the motions and constantly maintaining a sizable distance between them. Sometimes she didn't even bother to acknowledge Christine's presence at all. This made rehearsal of scenes involving both Serafimo and the Countess—and there were a large number of them—next to impossible. They often ended with Monsieur Reyer throwing everyone out in a fury, with very little having been accomplished.   
  
Despite all this, the managers refused to replace either Carlotta or Christine, or renege on their decision to make Christine Carlotta's understudy; most surmised that the latter was due to Raoul de Chagny's influence. Neither did the managers ever rebuke Carlotta for her behavior, and the staff was simply told to conduct rehearsals as best as they could. As a result, Reyer became more draconian than ever, and even Madame Giry's temper developed a short fuse. Monsieur Gabriel, the orchestra conductor, seemed to have a weary expression permanently affixed to his face.   
  
When Carlotta did deign to recognize Christine's existence, the results were even more disastrous. Still without making any actual physical contact, Carlotta somehow managed to manhandle Christine, and took great delight in tripping her up at every turn. She took to attending understudy rehearsals and loudly spouted vicious criticisms of Christine's singing and acting abilities to the point of distraction. At company music rehearsals, which Christine was required to attend, Carlotta made relentless fun of Christine's silent role. Every week there was a new rumor being spread about her, each one more outrageous than the last. And Carlotta's toadies, whom she seemed to have in limitless supply, took every available opportunity in the diva's absence to make Christine's life as miserable as possible.   
  
Christine's lessons with Reyer became a refuge for her. She felt that there, at least, the criticism was constructive and of value, as opposed to Carlotta's unending insults. Reyer was never any less acerbic--he was, in fact, a great deal more so than usual--yet he somehow seemed gentler when he was working with her. It was as if he sensed the toll Carlotta's abuse was taking on Christine's psyche and, in a rare display of empathy, had resolved not to contribute to her distress if he could help it.   
  
In comparison to the _Il Muto_ rehearsals, the lessons were actually very pleasant. There was no Carlotta, no cackling chorus members or twittering dancers, no taunts or whispers or staring eyes--only Reyer and Christine and the solitary piano. They worked together peaceably enough, Reyer oddly patient with her though he did grit his teeth from time to time if he felt she was lacking in effort; they discussed technique, and interpretation, and how the staging being done might affect both. Christine found herself using her lessons as an anchor for her sanity. Her anticipation of them bordered on irrational; she was so loath to leave them and return to regular rehearsal that she took to extending her post-lesson conversations with Reyer until he was forced to cut them short and dryly point out that they were both needed elsewhere. She even found herself wishing that their nightly ride home lasted longer, the longer to see a friendly face before having to confront her dark, empty flat and her own thoughts.   
  
She often felt like a sacrificial lamb of sorts, offered to appease both management and staff and then slaughtered in the name of fiscal security. Christine would think this and become frightened, frightened of what her mind was splintering into at Carlotta's hand, and she missed her father so fiercely at those times that the pain became a physical hurt. He would have known just what to do, just what to say to help ease her through the darkness until dawn broke. And she had to forcibly remind herself that her father was gone, dead three years, and she must be content and thankful for the support group she did have. She had the Girys. She had Joseph Arsenault and the conservatory kid now, both of whom had proven to be stalwart in their friendship. She had Raoul, as inconceivable as that might seem. And... she had Monsieur Reyer.   
  
During the three months that made up the rehearsal period for _Il Muto_, Reyer had become even more of a fixture in Christine's life; he was almost always there, even if only in the background at times, and always a source of support and strength. And she did believe in her heart that he supported her. He was never very obvious about it, not in the vocal I'll-campaign-for-you way, of course. It was evidenced in the little things--the fact that he continued to teach her, his feuding with the managers over Carlotta, his feuding with Carlotta herself concerning the woman's behavior, the occasional words of praise that seemed to carry an unspoken I'm standing beside you in this with them. And perhaps she was imagining it, but his eyes always seemed to follow her around the stage during rehearsals, as if he were watching out for her. Either way, imagined or not, it gave Christine courage to continue on when what she really wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and be forgotten.   
  
Especially, _especially_, at the last dress rehearsal.   
  
Carlotta had apparently decided that, it being the last rehearsal before opening night, it was due time for her to actually execute her blocking with Christine. Unfortunately, she was none too gentle about it. Monsieur Andre, who was attending, advised restraint to the staff in hopes that the diva would tone down. Which, of course, was nothing but a pipe dream--by the end of the first act Andre had nearly bitten a hole through his lower lip, Monsieur Reyer was audibly popping his knuckles and grinding his teeth, and Christine was close to tears. In the back of the theater, it was almost possible to see steam issuing from Raoul de Chagny's ears.   
  
"This can _not_ continue," Reyer hissed through clenched teeth as the actors onstage dispersed and stagehands began to set the opening scene of act two. "Any more of this abuse and I assure this production will be without a Serafimo--I'll take Mademoiselle Daaé out myself."   
  
"Now, now, let's be reasonable," Andre said nervously, dabbing his face with a handkerchief.   
  
Over his shoulder, Reyer spotted Raoul advancing rapidly up the aisle, with all the subtlety of a steam train. "Enter the choir," he muttered sourly, and Andre turned to be met head-on by the de Chagny Express.   
  
"_What_ is the meaning of this?" he demanded, loudly enough to raise a few heads in the orchestra pit. "You can't tell me that you haven't seen what's going on up on that stage!"   
  
Andre's right eye twitched, and the handkerchief wavered. "I assure you, monsieur le vicomte, that we are not blind," he replied uneasily. "But do you realize that this is the first time Carlotta has fully rehearsed her blocking...?"   
  
Raoul rounded on Reyer. "And precisely whose fault is _that?_"   
  
Reyer drew himself up to his full height, severely affronted. "I _beg_ your pardon," he shot back icily, "but you might choose to conduct _that_ particular conversation with the overdressed peacock on stage that is passing for the Countess."   
  
Andre colored around the ears. "Now, now, gentlemen--"   
  
Both Raoul and Reyer turned on him, and the manager flinched. "Go deal with her," he muttered in Reyer's general direction, then sidestepped past Raoul and headed for the exit as fast as his legs could carry him, continuing to mutter under his breath.   
  
Backstage, Meg was holding a cold compress to Christine's right wrist, which Carlotta had rather cruelly jerked midway through act one, and making soothing noises. "Everything will be fine," she murmured in what she hoped was a convincingly hopeful tone. Inside, she felt as if her blood was boiling. "You'll make it through this just fine, you'll see."   
  
The effort of holding back tears, lest she mar her makeup _and_ show any weakness, had left Christine nearly incapable of speech. It was just as well while she was onstage, since she had no lines to speak, but offstage the dam was threatening to break. Under the greasepaint her face was deadly white, and she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. "I don't know how much more I can take," she quavered, swallowing hard. "How can Carlotta do this? How can--"   
  
"Shhh," Meg calmed, reaching up to smooth Christine's hair back from her temples. "Take a deep breath and breathe." She knew what her friend wanted to say--how could Carlotta knowingly jeopardize the production like this, and how could no one take measures to stop it? But it didn't need to be said. Everyone was already wondering the same thing.   
  
Christine nodded and gulped again, her hands shaking.   
  
Meg glanced past Christine, further backstage. Madame Giry was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Carlotta; Meg fervently hoped that meant the diva was receiving a stern dressing-down, wherever she was. Meg did spot Ubaldo Piangi loitering in the wings, however, a small dog cradled in his arms, and Joseph Arsenault giving the man a death glare as he returned from his costume change.   
  
Just then Reyer stalked past with an air of burning determination, followed closely by Raoul. When Christine saw them, she was unable to keep herself held together a moment longer, and her control snapped.   
  
"Why haven't you _done_ anything?!" she wailed, startling Meg, staring with a world of hurt in her eyes as the two great pools of tears finally spilled over onto her cheeks.   
  
Reyer froze. For just an instant, Meg saw an expression of utter dismay flash across his face.   
  
Then Raoul was pushing past him, hurrying to kneel in front of Christine and taking her hands in his. Meg rocked back on her heels to move out of the way. "Don't think I haven't noticed what Carlotta's been doing to you," he said, sincerely apologetic. "I have. It's just that Monsieur Andre had hoped that she might back down, but now that she hasn't we're going to speak with her this very minute. Don't cry, Christine... everything will be taken care of."   
  
Meg was struck by three things: the way Reyer was staring at Raoul, the fact that Raoul had automatically assumed Christine had been speaking to him, and that it hadn't been him Christine had in fact been looking at.   
  
"Are you coming or not?" Reyer interjected sharply, an impenetrable look on his face. "We haven't got all day."   
  
Raoul seemed to chafe at the sudden rebuke, clearing his throat and rising to his feet. "Be strong," he said softly to Christine, with a final fond look.   
  
Reyer glanced askance at him. "Take care of her," he muttered to Meg, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.   
  
When they were gone, Meg turned back to Christine with a reassuring smile; the poor thing had just instinctively wiped her eyes and was looking in despair at the smeared makeup at her hand. "Come on, then," Meg said gently. "Let's get you cleaned up."   


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  
"I was not aware I was doing anything wrong," Carlotta was saying innocently, turning as required while one dresser laced up the stays on her bodice and another powdered her cheeks with rouge.   
  
For his part, Reyer's face was rapidly emulating an overripe tomato. The opulent dressing room was far from crowded, but to him it was overpoweringly claustrophobic. Carlotta often had that effect on him. "Oh, come off it, you miserable wretch," he spat. "You know perfectly well what it is you've been doing, and you would be advised to consider that this institution is not a playground for spoiled children. This is a professional opera company, and we expect you to behave like a professional!"   
  
Carlotta puffed up in indignation, very much resembling the peacock Reyer had earlier compared her to. "How can I behave as a professional," she shot back haughtily, "when I am forced to work with such spoiled children, who curry favor with the patronage?" And she looked pointedly at Raoul.   
  
Raoul flushed crimson. "Now look here just one minute--"   
  
"Enough of this," Andre interrupted from where he was standing by the door. "You're _all_ acting like children." He'd been quiet up to then, but even so Reyer had a sneaking suspicion that the man was there on behalf of the management without Firmin's knowledge. Andre's next words served to confirm it. "Signora, your behavior during the course of this production has been most unacceptable. If you do not cease this foolishness immediately, I will have no choice but to put Mademoiselle Daaé on in your place tomorrow night, with my full support."   
  
Carlotta's jaw dropped, and Reyer experienced a sudden surge of admiration for the manager. The two dressers, their work done, chose that moment to make a hasty exit, nearly tripping over the crowd eavesdropping outside in the corridor. Raoul glared at them as the door closed.   
  
"But--but Monsieur Firmin would never approve of such an action!" Carlotta spluttered.   
  
"I will have his full backing in this matter," Andre replied evenly, and his tone made it clear that Firmin would be doing so whether he liked it or not.   
  
Carlotta forcibly clamped her mouth shut and took a moment to recompose herself before responding, "I cannot allow you to make such a grievous mistake."   
  
"Does this mean your abuse of Mademoiselle Daaé will end?" Raoul quickly interjected.   
  
Carlotta nailed him with a venomous stare. "Don't presume to speak for me, boy."   
  
"Answer his question," Reyer said shortly, arms crossed menacingly.   
  
Carlotta gave them all an imperious look as she swept up her bejeweled costume shawl from her vanity table. "You will not regret having me as your star," she said haughtily, stalking past Andre and out the door.   
  
Left to themselves, the three men looked at one another.   
  
"She didn't answer," Reyer muttered, still on edge, unconsciously tapping his foot.   
  
Andre was once again pensive. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Still..." He sighed. "The show must go on, yes?"   



	11. Teacher of Music Part Eleven

Teacher of Music, Part Eleven  
_By Allison E. Lane _

"What new surprises lie in store?"  
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight

"What are we going to do in regards to the Opera Ghost?"

"What about him?" Firmin muttered in reply. It was half an hour to the opening curtain of _Il Muto_, and the two managers of the Opera Populaire were busy mingling with the cream of Parisian society in the Grand Foyer. Firmin nodded at a passing count and countess while keeping an eye trained on his wife, who was at the bottom of the staircase trading gossip with a group of her friends.

Andre nodded at the count and countess as well, his own eyes flickering restlessly over the crowd. "Don't pretend not to know what I'm speaking of," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "You know _what_—Box Five and the twenty thousand francs! All our plans to catch the Ghost in the act have failed. And you saw yesterday's charming little note. He still wants his money. Aren't you the least bit worried over the consequences of seating Box Five?"

"Not particularly," Firmin grunted, and pasted a smile on his face as Madame Firmin and her cadre ascended past them, no doubt off to engage in some schmoozing of their own. "What could the crook possibly do about it? Harass the concierge? No, we've sold the box, and we're better off for it. Good evening, monsieur, madame, welcome to the Opera Populaire," he added in his most genteel tones, bowing at the waist to a splendidly dressed couple who returned the gesture haughtily.

Straightening from his own bow, a frown crossed Andre's face as he murmured, "Perhaps we ought to invite the vicomte to sit in our box tonight."

"Rubbish, he's already paid for it," Firmin grumbled. "He has every right to sit in that box if he wishes. Unlike our ghostly _friend_." He spat out the last word with a glower, but as Andre watched the man's facial expression magically morphed into something approaching gracious servitude. "Ah, vicomte! How delightful of you to come to the performance this evening."

Raoul de Chagny had appeared next to them, immaculately dressed for a night out on the town. "But of course," he replied politely, with a smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

"And Box Five is prepared and ready for when you wish to be seated," Firmin assured him.

Andre fought the urge to put his head in his hands.

* * *

"They say that this youth has set my lady's heart aflame!"

_Quite the opposite_, Christine thought sourly, perched on the bed that was the centerpiece of _Il Muto_'s opening scene. At the moment a curtain hid her and Carlotta from the audience's view, which meant they were sitting side by side, without touching, and Carlotta was radiating all the warmth and affection of an Antarctic glacier. Thus far, the diva had not deigned to speak or to look at her. Unfortunately, that would all change in a moment's time.

"His Lordship sure would die of shock!" the conservatory kid sang gleefully, prancing about with the others in their jewel-encrusted costume finery. Christine couldn't help but smile a little at the enthusiasm in his voice, though her stomach churned.

"His Lordship is a laughingstock!" the other dandy crowed.

The trio—assisted by Meg, who twirled about with yet another container of prop jewelry—began to conclude their introduction, and Christine could sense the stagehands preparing to draw back the curtains surrounding her. Her stomach lurched queasily, and gamely setting her face with the proper expression, scooted closer to Carlotta to lean into their opening pose.

"Don't touch me, you disgusting brat," Carlotta hissed as she brought up her fan, and the curtains parted.

From then on it was a contest to see who could outperform the other and emerge victorious in their battle of wills. Carlotta almost instantaneously transformed into the giggling, adulterous countess, and Christine, into her mute paramour. The confidante and the two dandies let out highly scandalized gasps and giggles as the curtains around the bed withdrew to reveal Serafimo and the Countess engaged in an extremely inappropriate embrace. The two broke apart, the Countess giggled, and Serafimo gazed at her adoringly.

"Serafimo, your disguise is perfect!" Carlotta trilled.

_Please let this end quickly_, Christine prayed silently.

Backstage, Monsieur Reyer watched the proceedings with a steely eye, glaring unseen at Carlotta. He had already decided that if the woman so much as looked at Christine the wrong way, there would be serious hell to pay, and had informed the management as such. Firmin had merely snorted, while Andre at least had quirked his eyebrows in what appeared to have been agreement. Tapping his foot in silent agitation, Reyer had to concede that things were going well enough thus far, but reminded himself that the performance had only just begun—there were three entire acts for the situation to go south.

The sight of Christine's anguished, tear-streaked face refused to leave him. That had been the second time he'd seen her reduced to such a state by Carlotta's hand, and he never wanted to see it happen again. Carlotta had ruined too many people for him to sit idly by any longer. The petty cruelties, the casual injustices, the sneering insults—Reyer was thoroughly sick of it.

A musician knocking on a woodblock in the orchestra pit heralded the entrance of Don Attilio, husband of the Countess. Leaning on his cane and caked with comical white stage paint, Joseph Arsenault came shambling onstage. Both the audience and the Countess's entourage tittered. Christine, as Serafimo, set about pretending to straighten the bedclothes.

Joseph, in his booming baritone, sang of his imminent departure for England and his regrets that he had to leave his wife behind with her new maid. "Though," he snickered lecherously, "I'd gladly take the maid with me!"

_I would gladly go with you_, Christine thought glumly, almost forgetting to strut coquettishly as she fluffed pillows. Alas, such was not the opera's plot. She would continue to be trapped with Carlotta for a good deal many more scenes. With an effort, she managed to keep her bright, not-quite-innocent expression affixed to her face.

"The old fool is leaving!" Carlotta squealed to her entourage, which elicited another round of tittering.

In the managers' box, Firmin was already leaning back in his seat in contentment. "Splendid, splendid," he commented aside to Andre. "What did that scoundrel say this performance was supposed to be? A disaster beyond all imagination? Hardly! Things are proceeding quite swimmingly."

And then a voice murmured sardonically in Firmin's ear, "Are you so certain of that, monsieur?"

Onstage, Carlotta had just removed Christine's false skirt, revealing Serafimo's masculine attire for all to see. Don Attilio, who had elected to stay and spy on his wife's suspected trickery, brandished his cane in cuckolded outrage. The Countess and her confidantes sang gleefully of their plot while Serafimo kissed his lover's hand. And then, in the middle of a trilling arpeggio, Carlotta delivered what could only be described as a loud and resounding _croak._

The effect was almost instantaneous. Christine's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. In the pit, Monsieur Gabriel dropped his baton in shock, and the second violinist broke a string in surprise. Backstage, Reyer was torn between the impulse to gape or snicker. Firmin let out a kind of strangled cry, while Andre looked around in consternation. The audience collectively gasped.

Amazingly, Carlotta actually recovered from the gaffe first. Clearing her throat, she hissed "Maestro!" at Monsieur Gabriel, who shot back to his feet after recovering his baton. "The beginning, da capo, the beginning!"

Christine, who was in a state of near-shock herself, stammered, "But—"

Carlotta rapped her across the arm with her fan. "Shut up, you little chit!" she spat, and yanked Christine back to the bed, where Madame Giry's blocking had placed them at the beginning of the interrupted verse. His mirth instantly gone, it took all of Reyer's self-control not to hurl his score directly at the woman's head.

In Box Five, Raoul de Chagny had just half-risen to his feet, face flushed with anger, when he distinctly heard a voice whisper, "Monsieur, I do believe you are in my seat!"

"Serafimo, away with this pretense!" Carlotta was singing, a little too brightly to be comfortable. She moved to pluck Christine's skirt away, but paused when she remembered that the skirt was long gone and in the hands of the Hairdresser. Kicking Christine in the ankle, the two awkwardly pantomimed the act. Backstage, Reyer's face turned an interesting shade of puce. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's ab—"

Again, instead of a perfectly pitched note, the inexplicable croak issued from Carlotta's throat.

One of the musicians audibly spluttered with laughter through his horn, and the audience erupted into a storm of whispers and snickers. Even the stagehands were craning their necks to see and guffawing amongst themselves. Christine's hands flew to her mouth. Reyer looked as if he were doing his best not to choke; Andre had fled from the managerial box, leaving Firmin who now seemed incapable of anything but gaping with incomprehension. Raoul could only stare.

Flustered, Monsieur Gabriel hastily indicated for the orchestra to continue, and sloppily waved his arms to cue them in on the next phrase of the song. Carlotta, who had gone deadly white underneath her stage makeup, desperately struck a pose and tried again.

"Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha ha ha ha—"

No sooner had Carlotta broken out in a fit of hacking and coughing than the theatre descended into a state of utter pandemonium. The audience and half the backstage staff were roaring with laughter, with the orchestra coming to a prolonged and noisy halt to either join in the mirth or look helplessly about for direction. Gabriel looked as if he were about to faint. Firmin, having gained his senses, had dashed after Andre. Piangi waddled onstage despite his state of civilian dress to attempt to console Carlotta, who had begun crying hysterically at the top of her lungs. In the background Joseph Arsenault was leaning against a set piece for support, tears of laughter rolling down his face.

Pushed off center stage by Carlotta and Piangi's combined histrionics, Christine felt as if she were floating, suspended, in some bizarre alternate realm of reality. Everything was moving so slowly all of a sudden. Though she knew it was impossible, she couldn't help but think that she had somehow managed to project her worst nightmare—complete and total public humiliation—onto Carlotta by the sheer force of her loathing. The whole situation was insane. Year after year of perfect pitch and intonation, of never missing a performance due to ill health, and now that Christine was suddenly her understudy Carlotta was playing the toad in front of the entire world?

Andre skidded onstage then, signaling for the audience's attention, as Piangi and the Countess's entire entourage minus Meg and the conservatory kid bustled Carlotta away, no doubt for a lie-down, a cold compress, and a stiff brandy. Firmin appeared at his side a moment later, puffing from exertion.

"Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen!" Andre shouted over the din of the audience, clearly scrambling for something to say. "Er, the performance will continue in… ten… minutes' time with Christine Daae in the role of the Countess!"

Christine's world sped back up to speed. Firmin, who was obviously out of his depth, cast about for something authoritative to do and ended up seizing her by the arm, dragging her forward to display to the audience. Christine, utterly adrift, barely managed a jerky nod of acknowledgement before the wardrobe mistress descended upon her.

"Come along, cherie," the plump woman instructed, replacing Firmin's grip with her own and shepherding Christine backstage. Pushing down a surge of mute panic, she mentally searched for an anchor to keep her steady—it was all happening too fast to comprehend.

She locked eyes with Monsieur Reyer as they passed him in the wings, and he immediately fell in step beside her as if it were the only natural thing to do. Christine hadn't even finished sighing in relief before the wardrobe mistress tutted at him and shoved her behind a dressing screen, already snapping her thick fingers for the understudy wardrobe as the ballet dancers streamed past them. A dresser began to strip her of her Serafimo costume.

"Do you have any questions, Mademoiselle Daae?" Reyer asked from the other side of the screen.

"I—I don't believe so," Christine babbled, her voice hitching as the dresser laced her into a corset. _Please, say anything, anything to keep me from going mad from all this…_

"Do hold yourself together," Reyer responded, his muffled voice slightly acidic. Christine latched onto the oft-heard tone with a desperation born of rapidly stretching nerves. "You are perfectly familiar with this role and have no reason to panic. Take a deep breath and count to ten, if you feel it will help."

Christine only ended up gasping as the dresser finished with the corset and and the wardrobe mistress lifted the costume gown over her head. As they shifted and hooked it into place, she silently counted ten to the strains of the Act Three ballet coming from the orchestra pit. Meg was undoubtedly twirling about like a forest nymph at the very moment.

The dresser slipped a pair of heeled shoes on Christine's feet, and the wardrobe mistress, finished with stuffing her hair into a cap, set about pinning the elaborate gray wig in place.

"Any better?" Reyer's mildly sardonic voice inquired.

_Not very_. "A little, yes," Christine mumbled.

The wardrobe mistress jabbed the last hairpin in place and pushed Christine out from behind the screen, nearly toppling her into Reyer. "Off you go, cherie," she said briskly, as businesslike as ever, and rushed off with the dresser to attend to the understudy Serafimo.

Reyer instinctively steadied Christine on her feet with his free hand. "Just a moment before you go slather that awful paint on your face," he said, looking her intently in the eyes. "I know this isn't quite the most sterling of opportunities for you, but I trust you will make the most of it." His lips quirked briefly. "After all, it's not every day that one has the honor of filling in for an amphibian."

Christine couldn't help but gape at his choice of a tension breaker before a small giggle escaped her, and the moment afforded a much-needed ease on her nerves. Reyer nodded and cleared his throat. "My work here is done," he said lightly. "Now off with you to the greasepaint bottles."

"Wait," Christine blurted, catching him by the arm. "Would you mind staying just offstage? I—"

Her eyes focusing on something past his shoulder, her face abruptly drained of color and she tottered a half-step backwards just as screaming broke out in the audience. Mouth working soundlessly, her hands began shaking uncontrollably.

"What the devil…?" Flabbergasted, Reyer turned to see what was causing the commotion—only to have his score fall from suddenly nerveless fingers as his stomach plummeted to the center of the earth.

Seconds laters, having made his way backstage to inquire on Christine's welfare, Raoul de Chagny rounded a side curtain and stopped in his tracks at the sight that met his eyes. Christine, shuddering violently, had her face buried in Monsieur Reyer's shirtfront; Reyer's arms were wrapped protectively about her shoulders as he tonelessly uttered "Don't look, don't look…" over and over again, staring horrorstruck at the still-twitching body of Joseph Buquet as it dangled from the rafters.


	12. Teacher of Music Part Twelve

Teacher of Music, Part Twelve  
_By Allison E.L. Cleckler _

_"Mystery after gala night!"  
The Phantom of the Opera_, Act One Scene Eight

Buquet's death was ruled a suicide. The performance was temporarily halted--again--to cut the body down and call in the gendarmes. Once they arrived, the go-ahead was given for the performance to resume while the detectives investigated backstage as discreetly as they were able. While Christine and her colleagues put on their game faces and Carlotta gave in to histrionics in her dressing room, the body and the noose were examined, key eyewitnesses interviewed when available, and the catwalk from which Buquet had dropped was looked over. The performance closed to heartier applause than it deserved, and the audience was quick to exit. Those who had yet to be interviewed took their turn and then also beat a hasty retreat as if Buquet's spectacular death had lent a cursed air to the Opera House.

The reviews in the next mornings' papers largely focused on the tragedy, painting in lurid detail the event for those who had not been present. Some critics took the time to puzzle over the frog that had mysteriously taken over Carlotta's beloved golden throat. As for the remainder of the performers, it was generally agreed that the singing had been lackluster and the energy listless.

In all the furor and excitement, the whispering voice in boxes Five and Nine were forgotten.

_

* * *

_

_My dear managers:  
Please accept my sincere condolences for the tragedy that interrupted last night's performance. Of course, I am not speaking of Carlotta's quite humorous fit of croaking. Your cast is to be commended for the effort they put forth in the wake of Joseph Buquet's ill-timed suicide.  
In light of this event, I am willing to accept an extension on the payment of my salary. However, I expect to be paid in full at the conclusion of next week. Your dallying and ineffectual attempts at trickery sorely inconvenience me, and it does not do at all to anger your resident Ghost.  
I remain sincerely yours, gentlemen,  
O.G._

"Now what?" Firmin growled.

André simply raised an eyebrow at him. He was just finishing up his morning read of the newspapers and had not been paying attention to what the other man was doing.

In response, Firmin brandished the now-familiar black-edged letter at him, and André mentally winced. "This is becoming tiresome. _Quite_ tiresome. I am at my wits' end. Have you any more brilliant ideas, André? I refuse to be swindled!"

André's mind had actually been occupied by other matters, namely the previous night's performance, but he decided it would be better if he didn't let Firmin know that. "I do," he said slowly. "But I highly doubt you would be amenable to it."

Firmin eyeballed him.

Sighing, André folded his last paper and set it atop the stack on the corner of his desk. This wasn't going to be pretty. "I propose we simply pay the money."

Firmin's face abruptly turned a mottled shade of dark red. "_What?_"

André held up his hands in supplication. "Please, hear me out. Suppose this villain playing Ghost only wants the mere twenty thousand francs?"

"The _mere_--" He gestured sharply with his hands again, and Firmin subsided. "Perhaps if we grant his wishes and pay him this once, he'll have what he desires and will no longer trouble us. I know you will agree there is a slim chance of that, but at this juncture, I hardly know what else to do."

Firmin's jaw worked for a long moment. Finally, he sat back in his chair with a long-suffering sigh. "As I said, I am at my wits' end. It pains me, but—I agree." Both of André's eyebrows went up in surprise. "If anything, it will buy us a month of blissful silence from the fiend. But this will be the only time I give in, I assure you. Any more demands, and I'm calling in the Sûreté."

* * *

A crisp early winter afternoon found Christine flagging down a carriage, headed for the Giry household. Ever since Meg had befriended her when she was the timid new member of the corps de ballet, both women had insisted Christine celebrate her birthday with them rather than spend it alone. This year was no exception, especially since she was turning that landmark age of twenty-one. Meg had even hinted that there might be guests joining them. With that in mind, Christine made sure to wear her best dress and spent a little extra time pinning back her hair so that no strand was out of place.

A few weeks had passed since the tragic opening night of _Il Muto_. Christine was still performing as the Countess; rumor had it Carlotta was only just gaining the courage to even speak again. But as the production had only a dozen performances left, the company thought it highly unlikely that she would stage a grand return before the Opera's season ended for the year. Superstitious as she was, Carlotta probably believed her role was cursed. She would wait until the new year to sing again.

That suited Christine just fine. An opera house free of Carlotta was an opera house where she could walk without fear of being heckled or abused.

Monsieur Reyer continued to teach her, but at the same time he seemed to be holding her at arm's length, as if he were taking great pains not to touch her. Neither he nor Christine ever once mentioned what had transpired between them during that first disastrous performance.

That did not mean Christine, at least, had forgotten it--not by any means. In fact, she found herself thinking about it quite often. She honestly had no recollection of how she had come to be in her teacher's arms before the sound of Raoul calling her name had jolted her back to reality. She could not say who had moved first, whether Reyer had pulled her against him or she had fled to him herself. Perhaps it had been a mutually spontaneous thing born of shared horror. All she could remember was Raoul blurting her name and suddenly Reyer's arms, her buffer from the sight of Joseph Buquet's purple face, were gone. Raoul had quickly pulled her away, even as the managers were surging past to attempt to calm the audience, and Christine had only a moment to glimpse Reyer's white face staring after her before he was lost in the surging crowd.

She supposed he was ashamed of having overstepped the boundaries he'd set for himself as her teacher. Christine wanted to tell him she hadn't minded, and had indeed welcomed the comfort he'd given her. But in her mind, she could see his face closing up in disapproval at those words, so she kept them to herself.

"Christine!" Madame Giry exclaimed warmly when she arrived, greeting her with a kiss to both cheeks. It was a depth of affection the woman rarely displayed to anyone besides her daughter, and Christine felt humbled by it. "A happy birthday to you, my dear. Do come in--you're just in time, Meg was about to lay out tea."

Allowing her to take her cloak and gloves, Christine went into the sitting room, where she was immediately caught up in an effusive hug by the conservatory kid. Joseph Arsenault was right behind him, a little more dignified in his bearing but no less pleased to see her. And, to her great astonishment, Monsieur Reyer was sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. He didn't rise to greet her, only gave her a nod with one of his fleeting half-smiles, but Christine was so surprised and pleased to see him that she completely overlooked the breach of etiquette.

_So these are the guests Meg spoke of,_ she thought, and found herself suddenly glad that she'd taken such care with her appearance.

Meg bustled in then with the tea tray, and Christine quickly turned her attention to her friend as she'd realized she was beginning to stare at Reyer. "Christine, welcome!" Meg said happily, setting the tray down on a low table in front of the sofa and rounding it to embrace her. "Come here, sit down." She steered Christine to the chair opposite Reyer while the others took places on the sofa. "Now that our guest of honor is here, everyone must wish her a happy birthday."

"Happy birthday, Christine," Joseph and the kid chorused dutifully. Reyer said nothing, only looked on with a faintly amused expression on his face.

Meg was clearly enjoying taking over her mother's duties as hostess, which left Christine to wonder when she'd found the time to learn how to be so wonderfully domestic. After the tea was poured and everyone sang their well wishes--everyone but Reyer, who obstinately refused to join in the tune and instead dryly wished Christine his best for the year ahead--the younger Giry stood to arrange a small pile of packages on the end of the table nearest Christine. "These are for you," she announced with great ceremony.

"You've all brought me something?" Genuinely flattered, Christine looked at each of the men in turn and they all nodded, even Reyer. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

"Don't be silly," Reyer said from his chair, which he seemed to be using as a kind of fortress against the merriment of the others. "What did you expect? It would have been rude to come empty-handed."

That was what he'd told himself, anyway. He'd been surprised when Meg had approached him with an invitation to celebrate Christine's birthday--he hadn't even known the date was approaching, much less that anyone would want him around to help celebrate it. His first instinct had been to refuse, but Meg had an impish habit of getting her way, and he supposed he would have to endure another lecture on his 'reclusive lifestyle' from Madame Giry if he didn't come. So he'd grudgingly accepted the invitation on the spot to forestall the nagging. Then he'd realized with a sensation akin to panic that he would have to bring something for Christine. Reyer couldn't remember the last time he'd bought a gift for anyone; the toe shoes didn't count in his mind, as they'd been an apology, not a present. Birthday gifts needed to have meaning, needed to be personal, but he didn't want to be too forward. He was her teacher, after all, not her paramour. After spending half a day fretting at the market, he'd finally seized on something simple and mundane but useful, and had been relieved to put the matter out of his head.

But now he was here, with his gift on the bottom of the pile on the table and Christine sitting across from him, and he felt uncomfortable. His stomach was unsettled; he decided it was the tea. Meg had probably put too much sugar in it. This, he said to himself, was precisely why he was not in the habit of attending parties.

Christine smiled at him in amusement and reached for the topmost package. It proved to be an ornate silver hair clip from Madame Giry. The second package contained a little locket necklace. Meg had bought herself a matching one, she explained, and the lockets could each hold a snippet of hair so they would always have a part of one another wherever they went. Christine hugged Meg tightly, feeling tears prick at her eyes. Truly she was blessed with the dearest friend a person could ever ask for.

"That one is from us," the kid said as Christine picked up the next package, gesturing to himself and Joseph. They were both watching her with great anticipation. "We hope you like it."

Pulling the paper away revealed the two had gathered all the reviews of _Hannibal_ they could find and put them together to form a little scrapbook of sorts. "Thank you!" Christine exclaimed, reaching out to clasp their hands. "This is so thoughtful… I wasn't able to buy all the papers myself. Thank you so much!"

They beamed happily at her. "You're very welcome," Joseph replied, smiling. "Think nothing of it."

"I think everything of it," Christine countered warmly, and the kid went pink around the ears.

She picked up the last package, which was obviously Reyer's gift by process of elimination. It felt a bit lumpy in her hands, and holding it up, she asked teasingly, "Is this a practice gown to match the toe shoes?"

"No," he said, surprised she remembered them. He did, of course, but they had been his penance for a grievous breach of manners. He had no way of knowing that those toe shoes, their purpose spent, now occupied a place of honor next to the mirror on her vanity at home.

Still smiling, Christine undid the string and paper--and then her mouth fell open as a brightly-colored scarf spilled onto her lap.

She thought fleetingly of the scarf Raoul de Chagny had rescued from the Brittany sea, but mostly she remembered Sweden, the homeland she hadn't seen for half her lifetime now. How they traditionally patterned their clothing in the same bright colors to combat the long days of winter darkness. She hadn't known that Reyer had been aware of her heritage, and she couldn't even begin to imagine where he had found such a scarf to purchase. Looking up, she saw he was watching her keenly over tented hands. "It's lovely," she breathed, fingering the material gently.

"It is Swedish in style, is it not?" He knew perfectly well that it was--that was why he'd settled on it for a gift, recalling that Madame Giry said Christine had been born in Sweden--but she didn't have to know that.

Christine nodded, and impulsively wound the scarf around her neck. She didn't know if he would consider it appropriate for her to hug him, or clasp his hand as she had done with Joseph and the kid, or simply say thank you, since he was habitually skittish around displays of affection. But remembering that Reyer had taken to keeping her slightly distant, she decided to honor that by simply saying "thank you", though what she really wanted to do was throw her arms around him. For his part, Reyer responded to her thanks with a brief but genuine smile, and nothing else.

After the tea was finished and cakes were eaten, the group ventured outside to the gardens across the avenue for a stroll. Joseph was quick to offer his arm to Meg; Christine linked hers with the kid's, which made him flush pink about the ears again. That left Reyer to walk with Madame Giry.

"I didn't expect you to come," she said, after a few minutes of what he considered to be companionable silence.

"Hmm?" Reyer had been watching Christine's scarf flutter in the breeze--she was still wearing it, and one end was trailing over her shoulder in a vivid band of color. "Oh. And why not?"

Giry smiled. "You're hardly the social sort. You know this."

He bristled. He'd actually begun to enjoy himself somewhat, at least as much as was possible for him, so of course Madame Giry would have to spoil the mood by needling him on the woeful state of his social life. Perhaps one of these days she would finally comprehend the fact that it was really none of her business. If he chose to be a social butterfly or coop himself up in his flat for the rest of eternity, it was his business and his alone.

"Meg asked me," he said shortly. "And I knew I would never hear the end of it--from the both of you--if I refused. Besides," he added defensively, "contrary to what you may believe, I do enjoy going out on occasion."

They watched as, up ahead, Joseph picked a leafy sprig from a low-hanging tree branch to tuck behind Meg's ear. The kid, not about to be outdone, immediately liberated a larger sprig from the branch and presented it to Christine. Laughing, she kissed him on the cheek. Reyer scowled.

"Wherever did you find that scarf?" Madame Giry inquired placidly.

"At a market; where else do you think?" She was beginning to annoy him. What did it matter where he'd bought the damned thing? And why did the blasted woman insist on overanalyzing every little thing he did? She'd been at it even more so since he'd taken on Christine as a student, behaving like a doting mother wary of ill intentions towards her daughter. It occasionally made Reyer want to scream. Giry wasn't the girl's mother and he didn't need her to be his minder, the meddling busybody; he had no intentions at all towards Christine, and certainly not the kind she'd want to slap him with her time-keeping cane for. Thankfully, though, Madame Giry seemed willing to let his answer slide, and resumed watching the foursome on the path ahead with an air of contentment. Reyer mentally sighed in relief and allowed himself to relax slightly.

"I know she's very happy you came," Giry said after a moment.

Reyer rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you for that enlightening piece of information," he shot back sarcastically. "I couldn't have inferred that for myself at all." Truth be told, he hadn't taken much notice of her reaction to his presence, other than that she'd smiled at him as she always did when they met nowadays. He supposed he ought to be glad that she'd wanted his company, though the idea that she would--that anyone would--was a little foreign.

Madame Giry only smiled, having taken no umbrage at his response, and Reyer scowled again. Ahead, the young foursome broke out in laughter at some shared joke, and Christine glanced back at Giry and Reyer. Reyer automatically nodded at her, his scowl giving way to a more pleasant expression, and she smiled back at him before turning away to giggle in Meg's ear. The trailing edge of her scarf sailed on behind her, bright in the autumn sunlight, as bright as the light in her eyes, so different from the timid, unremarkable girl he first knew.

Then it occurred to him that he was mentally waxing poetic over her--not over her voice, over _her_--and the unease in his stomach returned.


	13. Teacher of Music Part Thirteen

Teacher of Music, Part Thirteen  
_By Allison E.L. Cleckler _

_"The vicomte, her lover!"  
The Phantom of the Opera_, Act One Scene Eight

* * *

The evening celebration of Christine's birthday was an entirely different affair from the little party at the Girys' flat.

Raoul de Chagny had insisted on treating her to dinner at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Paris. Christine didn't have the heart to turn him down—despite being skittish at the prospect of having to blend in with high society, and being leery of giving Raoul the wrong idea about the nature of their relationship, he was still a cherished old friend and she enjoyed his company. It was only right that she share part of the day with him.

The venue demanded the kind of attire that Christine both did not have and could not afford, so she approached the head costumier for permission to borrow a suitable gown from the Opera's vast costume collection. She eventually found a heavily-bustled evening dress in deep green satin with a plunging neckline that fit almost perfectly. Meg coiled and looped her hair up and pinned it in place with the silver clasp Madame Giry had given her earlier in the day, and then helped Christine choose how to apply makeup to her face. The colors were bolder than the ones she generally preferred to use, but Meg assured her they went well with the dress. After she was done fussing, Meg stepped back to look her over with a proud eye.

"Oh, Christine, he won't be able to take his eyes off you!" she gushed, and Christine looked away, blushing. That wasn't quite the effect she wanted to have, but she couldn't deny feeling a little giddy at the suggestion that Raoul might find her beautiful. She was used to being ridiculed by the dancers as a plain Jane, and such a compliment—even from a friend—would have the capacity to make her blush like a ripe tomato. She didn't realize that ever since she'd begun taking singing lessons, and especially since the gala performance of _Hannibal_, her personality had changed so dramatically that the dancers now envied her the beauty of the happiness on her face.

_She's in love,_ they gossiped amongst themselves. _She must be, and with that vicomte of hers, no doubt. Nothing else could light up a girl that way._

Promptly at eight o'clock, Raoul's carriage pulled up to the front steps of the Opera House, where Meg was waiting with Christine to see her off.

"Have a good time!" she called cheerfully, waving as Raoul helped Christine up into the carriage and then climbed in after her, rapping on the roof overhead to let the driver know they could depart. The driver flicked his reins and the carriage set off with a slight jerk, leaving Meg and the familiar, comfortable world of the Opera behind.

"Christine, I must say you look absolutely amazing," Raoul said, smiling broadly. "I almost didn't recognize you. Is the gown yours?"

"Ah, no," Christine replied, ducking her head slightly. She didn't want Raoul to see her blush, both from pleasure and a tinge of embarrassment. "I… borrowed… it from the Opera's costume department."

"Well, it looks as if it were made for you." He caught the blush despite her attempt to hide it and correctly interpreted the cause behind it. "I'm sorry… it was rather rude of me to ask, wasn't it? I know your finances won't allow you to be so frivolous. No, don't look away, there's no need to be ashamed." Raoul took the liberty of tipping her chin up with one finger, and smiled reassuringly. "I also know how proud you can be. Frankly I'm surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner."

Christine smiled back at him affectionately. It was still almost unbelievable to her, how quickly they had eased back into their friendship as if no time at all had passed between them. Raoul had always known and understood her so well, even as a boy, and that had not changed. "How could I not?" she replied. "You are my friend. As such I am required to let you spoil me if you so wish—when the situation calls for it."

He laughed. "I believe your birthday is a situation that calls for spoiling. Have you had a good day so far?"

"Very." She reflected on the little party the Girys had given her, and thought that surely there was no better way to spend a birthday than in the company of friends, and the people you considered family. Meg was the sister she'd never had, and Madame Giry the mother she couldn't remember; Joseph and the kid had become dear and loyal friends. And Monsieur Reyer was…

… Well, he was important, too.

"Yes," she continued, "I've had a very good day. I went to the Girys' and they had friends over for tea and cake."

"I'm glad to hear it. Though surely you've kept room for dinner?"

Christine nodded. "Of course."

They soon arrived at the restaurant, and Christine tried not to feel too terribly self-conscious as she took Raoul's arm to step out of the carriage. This world—Raoul's world—was not one she felt comfortable in, but she was determined to squash her nerves and enjoy herself.

Waving the carriage off, Raoul place his free hand atop hers and squeezed her fingers encouragingly. "Your feast awaits us, my lady," he said gallantly, and Christine instantly felt more at ease. Raoul did not expect her to be anyone but herself, no matter what social circle they were mingling in. She would be fine.

They were shown to a semi-private table near the entrance and given their menus while wine was poured; Raoul cheerfully reminded Christine that money was no object and to pick whatever courses she liked. Christine hardly knew what to choose, being unaccustomed to such an array of choices, and so asked him to suggest his favorite dishes. He immediately launched into a commentary on the pros and cons of each dish that had Christine giggling behind one hand like a schoolgirl. Eventually, they both settled on a lobster bisque and lamb with mint sauce for the main course.

"Now, you may or may not like the sauce," Raoul warned as their waiter bowed and moved away. "It's not to everyone's taste. But I can assure you that the lamb itself is magnificent. Phillippe often remarks that he would love to lure the head chef away to our estate."

Christine shook her head slightly in amusement, sipping her wine and finding it superb. "He won't simply buy the chef's services?"

"Touché." Raoul sighed exaggeratedly, and then winked at her. It was a well-known fact that his older brother was not shy about flaunting the family wealth, and it had been the subject of jokes between the two friends from their earliest times together. "Perhaps he feels it would be a crime to deprive the rest of Paris of the man's work."

"How magnanimous of him," Christine replied, deadpan, before a smile fought its way onto her face and she had to look down lest she break out into an unseemly fit of laughter. They both knew Phillippe was anything but.

By the time the bisque was brought out Christine, despite the one corner of her mind keeping constant attention on her poise and deportment, felt mostly relaxed. Raoul was his customary friendly company, none of the other diners appeared to be giving her more than a passing glance, and neither had any of them stopped by to make inquiries or polite conversation. Silently, she chastised herself for having been so nervous at the start.

So of course, that was the moment Raoul's gaze focused on something past her shoulder for a moment longer than normal, and the merry expression on his face dimmed slightly. "Oh, dear."

Christine frowned at him. "What is it?"

"Ah, I believe I spy our very favorite leading soprano just across the room."

Her face going pale, Christine froze in the middle of instinctively turning to look for herself and put her soup spoon down with a hard swallow. "Oh, _no_. Do you think she's seen me?"

Raoul's nostrils were flared slightly, as if he were being assaulted by an unpleasant smell. "No… I don't think she has. Recognized you, that is. Your back is to her, after all."

"I'm quite sure she could easily recognize my back from a hundred paces," Christine countered sourly. It had been a hard lesson, but she had learned not to underestimate the power and depth of Carlotta's hatred. It seemed to give the woman an almost preternatural awareness of those she perceived as the enemy. Currently, Christine was most assuredly enemy number one.

Reaching across the table to squeeze her hand reassuringly, Raoul said firmly, "I refuse to let that horrid woman spoil your night. Put her from your mind immediately and enjoy your dinner."

"Is that an order?" Christine asked with a tiny smile, her mood buoyed by his blunt assessment of the red-haired diva.

He squeezed her hand again and then released it to take his spoon back up. "Indeed it is," he said, his own smile one of encouragement. "Carlotta isn't worth the distress she causes you. We should concentrate on more important matters."

Christine's smile widened. "Such as?"

Raoul's expression indicated the answer should have been perfectly obvious. "Such as whether or not you'll like the mint sauce, of course."

She did like the mint sauce. And, as Raoul had said, the lamb was excellently prepared. They sent their compliments to the chef and the man himself soon came out to thank them; the de Chagnys were evidently valued patrons. When Raoul casually let slip that it was his companion's birthday, the chef was only too happy to have the kitchen prepare a special dessert pastry for Christine's enjoyment. He clearly took great delight in seeing his dishes enjoyed, a humble artiste in his own right, and Christine found herself warmly thanking the chef for his efforts. Between the food and Raoul's cheerful banter, she was indeed able to put Carlotta from her mind.

Raoul instructed his driver to take them back to the Opera House, where the Girys were waiting for her to return. As she alighted from the carriage, Christine thanked him sincerely for the wonderful birthday dinner. It had turned out to be quite a treat.

Kissing her hand, he replied, "Thank _you_." With a final brilliant smile and another rap on the carriage ceiling, he was gone. Christine watched for a moment as the carriage drove away into the night, then turned with a happy sigh and began making her way up the steps to the Opera's entrance.

* * *

The first sign Christine had that something was wrong, when she returned to the Opera the next Monday, were the whispers. 

As she came in the front entrance and made her way up the Grand Staircase to the less public areas of the building, it seemed as if a growing flock of half-heard murmurs and snatches of words were trailing behind her. A pair of young ballet rats walked out of a rehearsal room, saw her, and instantly broke out into a fit of giggles; they had hurried back into the room almost before Christine had time to process what they'd done. A passing chorus member gave her a meaningful look and a wink, but she was baffled as to what the meaning was supposed to be. Even the house staff were staring as she passed and whispering to each other behind cupped hands. It made the hair on the back of Christine's neck prickle uncomfortably, and she longed for a mirror. Was there something wrong with her dress? Had something caught in her hair? Had something marked her face without her taking notice of it?

She met a group of her former colleagues in the ballet chorus where the corridor branched off towards the dormitories, and she found herself suddenly surrounded by a squealing mob.

"Christine, why didn't you _tell_ us?" one of them demanded.

"T-tell you what?" she stammered, her unease threatening to spill over into nervous panic, and she took a step back—only to have her heel come down on someone's foot.

"_Ow_," said a voice, and Christine spun around to find herself almost face-to-face with Joseph Arsenault.

"Joseph!" she exclaimed, with equal parts surprise and relief, as he put his hands on her shoulders to steady the both of them.

"Easy there," he said, and then glared at the dancers. They were still clustered just behind Christine, wearing identical expressions of curious expectation. "Why don't you lot shove off already?" he said sharply.

They pouted and glared back, but when Joseph gave no sign of relenting they gamely shuffled on past, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders as they went.

Christine blew out a huge lungful of air and grimaced. "I can't begin to say how happy I am to see you," she babbled in a rush, running her hands nervously across the front of her dress. "Everyone's behaving so strangely towards me, as if they know something I should but don't! Has something happened…?"

Joseph was looking at her speculatively and, she noticed with a little touch of dread, sympathetically as well. "You don't read the papers much, do you."

Her stomach dropped through the floor. Somehow, she _knew_. She knew what the whispers were about. "How… how bad is it?" she asked weakly.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded section of newspaper, handing it to her and grasping her hand briefly. "It's… bad."

* * *

"Andre! I say, man, have you been reading the papers this weekend?" Firmin demanded as he entered the managerial office. 

Andre nodded and made a noise of assent as he skimmed a page of figures. He'd been expecting a display of this sort from his partner ever since he'd seen the Sunday society columns.

"Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae! Can you believe the nerve?" Firmin exclaimed, pacing back and forth across the Persian rug in the middle of the floor. "I can't say I'm surprised he's taken up with her—those young men do love their starlets—but parading her about in public? Has his brother taught him nothing on how to conduct himself in society? It's a scandal in the making!"

Andre considered saying nothing, but decided Firmin would surely be expecting a response, or at the very least some sign of agreement. "Does that concern you?" he asked mildly.

"Concern me?" Firmin snorted as he gave up pacing and rounded his desk to drop heavily into his chair. "Hardly. Scandal generates interest, and interest generates sales!"

Shaking his head, Andre resumed his examination of the page of figures.

* * *

"It's in all the papers, I hear," Joseph said, as the newspaper began to tremble ever-so-slightly in Christine's hands. "They're having a field day with it. Rising young opera singer with the most eligible bachelor in Paris? You do realize that is what Raoul de Chagny is, don't you?" 

"Of course I do," Christine replied faintly, her stomach having gone indescribably sour. This was what she had been afraid of when she'd accepted Raoul's dinner invitation, indeed from the moment he'd stepped back into her life. She didn't want society's attention upon her, hated the thought of causing her friend any awkwardness with his family or social circle. They were no longer children, and their friendship would no longer be perceived as harmless. She would, no doubt, be watched very closely by the gossipmongers from now on. The prospect made Christine's chest tighten with dread.

Joseph gently took the paper from her, refolded it, and tucked it back into his coat. "Were you bothered at all during your dinner? That is to say," he added quickly, "I assume you did have dinner and that, at least, was not a fabrication."

It was perhaps the only thing in the column that had not been a fabrication. Christine started to shake her head in the negative, but then her stomach twisted horribly and she moaned, "Oh, God. Carlotta."

"And all our questions are hereby answered," Joseph said dryly.

"Raoul saw her there," Christine was murmuring, almost to herself. "He didn't think she'd seen us. He convinced me not to worry about her."

Putting an arm about her shoulders and looking encouraged, Joseph smiled at her and said, "It's just another of her petty attacks, then. It will blow over soon. Your friends know you, Christine… and we know better than to take this at its word."

"I wish I had your optimism." Christine was quite sure that this particular attack on her character would be a lingering one, but she desperately wanted to believe her friend's assurances. Then a thought suddenly occurred to her and she felt her stomach sink even lower. "Monsieur Reyer will have seen this too, won't he."

"What if he has?" Joseph asked, perplexed.

"I don't think he cares much for Raoul. I'm sure he's assuming the worst."

Joseph squeezed her shoulder and then stepped away. "Oh, I don't think so," he replied. "He knows you too, remember. And knowing _him_, he's most likely plotting Carlotta's demise yet again. Of course he'll know Carlotta is behind this. When in doubt, blame her. Yes?" He smiled brightly. "Go on, pay him a visit, and you'll see I'm right."

Christine tried to smile back, but the expression came out wan and wobbly. "I suppose I should. Sooner rather than later, too, I think." She drew in a deep breath, and added, "Thank you, Joseph. I'll see you soon."

Then she turned and practically shuffled away, her shoulders rounded in an unhappy slump.

"Good luck," Joseph said quietly as he watched her turn a corner and disappear from view, hoping her conversation with the chorus master would not go as badly as he actually feared it would.

* * *

Reyer had indeed read the dreaded columns, but like Christine, had only learned of them that morning. He had no use for reading about the comings and goings of the Paris elite, so he'd had no idea his student had become the overnight star of the gossip columns until Monsieur Gabriel mentioned it while they were taking coffee in the Opera commissary. Reyer had asked to borrow the newspaper Gabriel had been carrying and, as if sensing something potentially dangerous about his companion's mood, the conductor had left him alone to stew over the words laid out in neat eight-point type before him. 

He had put out of his mind the unease he'd felt in the park a few days previous, but reading about Christine sharing an intimate dinner with Raoul de Chagny brought it back in force, twisting into something uncomfortable in his gut. An unfamiliar voice in the depths of his mind began whispering unfamiliar things. Oh, Reyer's logical self was perfectly sure Carlotta had a hand in the thinly-veiled slander splashed across the newsprint—she usually did when it concerned the Opera in any way—and Christine herself had even mentioned her plans to dine with the vicomte while at the Girys'. Reyer hadn't much cared for it then, and now the unfamiliar voice in his head was eating away at him in insistently ugly tones. Had it really been necessary to make the dinner as… intimate… as the column had alleged? How had the two even made an acquaintance in the first place? They didn't exactly hail from the same spheres of society. Come to think of it, Raoul had exhibited an uncommon amount of interest in Christine from the beginning of his patronship, and in Reyer's experience that meant only one thing.

He hated to think of Christine in such a light, hated the implications and the mental images, but the whispering voice lingered.

It made his stomach wrench.

_Surely_ it wasn't the coffee disagreeing with him. Monsieur Gabriel had poured from the same pot and was still perfectly fine.

To distract himself, Reyer closeted himself in his office and set about straightening his collection of operatic scores. But it didn't work; the voice continued to chew on his insides no matter how hard he concentrated on alphabetizing. Surely Christine would have been unable to carry on a scandalous affair behind his back—behind all their backs, he hastily corrected himself. Surely she would have been distracted by such a thing. Surely he—they—would have noticed.

_You don't spend every moment of every day with her,_ the voice said. _You don't spend her nights with her._ And he flushed crimson about the collar. _She has plenty of time away from you to carry on as she wishes. And you yourself have noted that she can be an extraordinarily good actress when the need arises._

But I _know_ her. Christine simply isn't the kind of girl to—

_Ah, but how well do you truly know her? She never bothered to tell you of her own birthday. You are simply her teacher, nothing more and perhaps even less._

If I meant nothing to her, would she smile at me the way she does—

_She is a good actress when she needs to be._

Reyer was barely aware of the particulars of the ongoing argument in his head, only that it made him distinctly uncomfortable and turned his hands clammy around the bundles of music. He had only made progress through one drawer of a cabinet, despite having spent three quarters of an hour at the task, when there was a soft knock at his office door.

"Enter," he called shortly, in no particular mood to speak with anyone.

The door opened and lo, the subject of his mental torment entered, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair over her shoulder, her face drawn.

"Good morning," Christine said after a moment, awkwardly, when it became obvious there was no greeting forthcoming from him.

Reyer had let his hands drop from the cabinet as she came into the office, taking in the nervousness she radiated in near-palpable waves, and was that a tint of guilt in the cast of her eyes? The words fell from his lips before he had time to process what he was saying. "Ashamed of yourself now, are you?"

Christine blinked twice, rapidly, and stared at him. "I—I'm sorry?"

He jerked a hand in the direction of his desk, and Christine's gaze followed the motion to land on the pile of newspapers there. The corners of her mouth twitched unhappily. "I suppose it would be pointless to ask if you've read the weekend's society columns, then," she said faintly.

"Quite," Reyer replied bitingly, as he folded his arms tightly across his chest. The clamminess in his hands had increased tenfold and there was a tightness in his chest he didn't understand, but he barged on despite the sudden impression that this was not what he should be saying at all. "I see you've been keeping some rather _titled_ company recently. The Vicomte de Chagny is very taken with you, is he?"

A prickly red flush was slowly creeping up Christine's neck. "He… we were childhood friends," she said quickly, lightly shaking her head as if experiencing a brief moment of pain. "He was very fond of my father, and my father of him. We lost touch shortly before my father's death and Raoul was very happy to find me again."

"Oh, yes, I imagine," Reyer shot back sarcastically, "_very_ happy. He never bothered to make any secret of that with the management." He leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with acid, and he barely recognized it as his own. "Do you know, either the comte has been remiss in schooling your young man on the finer points of societal etiquette, or he's just not very _intelligent._"

The flush had reached Christine's ears and her brow was furrowed in distress. "What?"

"He obviously doesn't have the sense to _not_ parade his mistress about in public!" Reyer exploded.

Suddenly there was a thick, deadly silence in the room. The flush on Christine's neck vanished almost instantly, to be replaced by two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. She was staring at Reyer in shock. "What… what did you say?" she finally demanded, her voice nearly tremoring.

Reyer refused to backpedal, retract, or apologize, even though he felt like he'd just made some sort of terrible mistake. It was out there now, he'd said what the whispering little voice in his head had been insinuating all along, and there was no going back. "You know perfectly well what I said," he snapped back. "You're not deaf."

"How—how could you _think_ such a thing?" Christine cried, her eyes wide, hurt, and betrayed. "You _know_ me. You know I would never—"

"I thought I did," he interrupted cuttingly, and his mouth seemed to be speaking without his permission. "But you're a very good actress, aren't you?"

"Raoul is my _friend!_" Christine shot back, nearly shouting, and Reyer almost took a step back. Almost. "Nothing more!"

Now the ugly voice in his head was moving his body in his stead, too. Reyer slapped a finger down on the nearest newspaper spread across his desk. "The aristocracy doesn't make friends with the lower classes," he spat. "And they certainly don't share dinners like _that_ with them."

"He wanted to spoil me." Christine's voice was shaking now, but even though tears were streaming down her face, the emotion behind it all wasn't despair, but anger. Her entire body was shaking, and her hands were clenched at her sides. "And, just this once, I allowed him to do it. Friends do that for each other. But I wouldn't expect you to know anything about that, because you _have_ no friends. You are the most despicable man I have ever met, and I hope you are happy with that. No, I'm sorry. I don't hope—I _know_ you are!"

And with that, she turned on her heel, yanked open the door, and stormed out, slamming it shut behind her.

The room seemed to shake and spin with the force of her departure, and Reyer, frozen in place, was unable to dispel the feeling of having been stabbed in the gut by his own hand.


	14. Teacher of Music Part Fourteen

Teacher of Music, Part Fourteen

"_Wishing you were somehow here again…_

_The Phantom of the Opera_, Act Two Scene Five

* * *

Snow slashed past the train window in unending gray lines as Christine stared sightlessly out at the passing countryside. Tomorrow was the anniversary of her father's death, so she was traveling to the little village of Perros, where he had been buried, to honor his memory. Raoul had expressed a desire to accompany her to pay his respects as well. He was now sitting on the seat across from her in their private compartment, leafing through a novel.

She had briefly considered declining his request. The fall-out and subsequent aftermath of her debut in the gossip columns of every Parisian newspaper in print had left Christine extremely reluctant to be seen in public with Raoul again. But in the end, she had relented. It would have been grossly unfair to Raoul to deny him a goodbye to a dear friend because she was feeling selfish. And while traveling with him would doubtlessly cause tongues to wag anew, it would perhaps have been more unseemly for her to travel alone. Thus she had allowed him to come with her, and he had quietly made their arrangements.

So far during their trip Christine had been quiet and withdrawn and Raoul, in his gently understanding way, had tacitly assumed she was somber in remembrance of her father. This was true—she was—but it was also not the entire truth. She was still quite disturbed by her last encounter with Monsieur Reyer. It had been some considerable time since their blowout in his office but Christine still felt as if her heart had been ripped out and stomped upon.

_Il Muto _had closed out its limited run with Christine still performing the lead role. It was unprecedented—it had been several seasons since anyone besides Carlotta had headlined a production at the Populaire, as Monsieur Lefevre had consistently chosen to stage operas that showcased his star to the fullest. But the diva, now believing _Il Muto_ to be cursed, had patently refused to return to it. To the new managers' relief, her loss did not result in the drastic drop in ticket sales they had despaired of. There were losses—that was inevitable. But they were minimal. As pleased as was possible for a man of his temperament, Firmin had even added a bonus to Christine's salary for the month.

Thus Christine experienced her first true taste of life as a leading lady. She had her own dressing room, her own dressers, a raise in pay, and she took her bows every night to enthusiastic applause. Elaborate arrangements of flowers were delivered to her dressing room before and after every performance. She had determined to be realistic about the whole thing since she knew, as they had all believed regarding her appearance in the_ Hannibal_ gala, Carlotta would never permit it to happen again. She honestly believed most of the audience came to get a glimpse of the little chorus girl who had the Vicomte de Chagny so besotted. Even so, her friends encouraged her to enjoy the experience while it lasted.

"Carpe diem, and all that," Joseph had said.

But try as she might, Christine had found that her heart just wasn't in the enjoyment.

Reyer was too near, his face closed off and blank like a cold stone wall. Every note she sang, she was reminded of the hours they'd spent together perfecting them; every flower from Raoul left on her dressing table before a performance brought back the choking, suffocating sensation she'd felt in her throat as Reyer had stabbed his finger down on the hated column in the paper. That was always followed by a heavy sense of betrayal mixed with guilt. Why should she feel betrayed by his behavior and accusations? What had there been to betray? There was nothing, on either side. But she had thought she and Reyer were at least friends. She had thought… a lot of things. None of which seemed to matter anymore.

She was so hurt and angry that she couldn't even bear to look at him in the days immediately after; that was only compounded by the fact that he made not a single overture of peace towards her. A tiny little voice in the rational part of Christine's mind tried to argue that this was how he behaved—he would never be the first to apologize, if he even apologized at all. But her emotional side remained staunchly resolute. She would not give him quarter until he showed remorse.

But he never did. He seemed as determined to ignore her as she was to ignore him.

It sat like a leaden weight in her chest, heavy where her heart had been. She'd taken the toe shoes off her vanity table at home and hidden them away in a drawer, because seeing them every morning and every night made it curiously hard to breathe.

Glancing down at the colored wool twined in her fingers, Christine sighed. Despite her efforts to banish all reminders of her teacher from her life, she hadn't been able to part from Reyer's birthday gift to her.

* * *

Raoul secured them rooms—separate, of course—at the little inn in Perros, and the innkeeper's wife served them a simple meal of stew and bread in the common room. As night had already fallen, they decided to retire early and go to the graveyard in the morning.

She couldn't be certain if it was only her imagination, but Christine felt sure the innkeeper's wife had stared at her and Raoul while they ate. Surely she had paid them more attention than was necessary for the amount of politeness required for her position? Perhaps it was just her newly-acquired paranoia making her see things that weren't there, read more into actions than she should.

She shouldn't feel guilty. She had no reason, no logical reason, to feel that way. She wasn't betraying anyone; she wasn't doing anything wrong. She was only bringing an old friend to pay his respects to her dead father. There was no way Reyer—_anyone_, she angrily corrected herself—could possibly view the situation in the wrong light. She shouldn't have to feel so defensive. But she did. She felt nervous and lonely and deeply unhappy.

She sat for a long time at the window in her room, watching what little snowfall she could see in the glow from the inn's lights until the innkeeper extinguished them.

In the morning, Christine was first down to the common room. The innkeeper's wife served her and Raoul again, and afterward Raoul spoke to the innkeeper about acquiring a horse and trap. It wasn't such a long walk to the church and graveyard, but the snow would make it a slow and uncomfortable one. The man agreed to lend them his own and once the horse was harnessed and brought around, Raoul solicitously handed Christine up into the seat and made sure the heavy wool blanket was wrapped securely around her legs before seating himself. With a flick of the reins, they were off.

They spoke very little during the ride. Raoul needed only a few reminders for directions, and Christine felt no inclination towards making small talk. As it was, they had never required it to comfortably pass the time; at present their mutual silence wasn't content, but neither was it awkward. Raoul remarked once or twice on landmarks he recognized, but took Christine's unresponsiveness in stride and didn't press her to reply.

He pulled the trap up outside the little church adjacent to the graveyard and helped Christine down. The priest was venturing outside to greet the visitors to his doorstep, so Raoul told Christine to go ahead without him.

"I'll catch up with you," he said kindly, and briefly laid a hand on her shoulder.

Christine recognized it as a ploy to give her time alone with her father's memory, and was grateful for it. She gave him a tiny but genuine smile before turning away.

The iron gate opened easily despite the freezing conditions, and Christine left it open as she moved forward into the orderly rows of gray headstones. Charles Daae's final resting place was on the fourth row, thirty paces to the left from the lane that cut through the center of the graveyard. It was a simple stone, unadorned save for his name and the years of his birth and death. The remains of the flowers Christine had brought on her last visit were still in place at the base, brittle and fragile with time and frost.

She had no flowers with her this time. Kneeling carefully in front of the grave, she made the sign of the cross and then bowed her head. Her heart, again, felt like a lead weight in her chest.

"Please lend me your strength, Papa," she whispered. "I just—I don't know what to do now."

As with every time she had pleaded for guidance before, there was no answer forthcoming from the impassive stone in front of her.

Her father, Christine thought, might have liked Monsieur Reyer, despite all his shortcomings—and he had a plethora of them. Certainly he would have had something helpful to say about the predicament she'd found herself in with her erstwhile teacher. And he would have been very happy that she'd rekindled her friendship with Raoul. He'd known that their lifestyle hadn't always been the best for making and keeping friends, and how her shyness had made that task even more daunting. That the one friendship she'd made had been with a boy well above her station had never mattered to him.

Christine knelt alone with her thoughts for what seemed like hours, but must have been only minutes, before the crunch of boots on snow-dusted gravel signaled Raoul's approach. She gathered herself back to her feet, knees creaking in protest, and stepped back a pace as he joined her in front of the grave. He made the sign of the cross and bowed his head as she had done, and they both stood silently while he mentally recited whatever prayer he had to offer to the spirit of his mentor and friend.

At length, Raoul placed a hand at her elbow and looked down at her. "Are you all right?" he asked seriously.

Christine bit her lip and stared ahead as she considered her answer. "No," she finally replied, her voice sounding tiny and distraught to her ears.

Concern blanketed Raoul's face, and he turned so he could take both of her hands in his. "Whatever is the matter?"

It might have seemed an absurd question, given the circumstances, but he had intuited that her distress was due to more than just the day's reminder of her father's absence. Christine had hoped to keep that from him, but perhaps she ought to have known better. He had always been able to read her so well.

"It's—" she gulped. "The papers. And Monsieur Reyer. He's been _terrible_ to me about them. I wish he wouldn't! He's so unreasonable when it comes to my friendship with you, and I wish he would see—It would be nice to have his support now, rather than his condemnation. I had thought—oh, it doesn't matter now what I thought, does it?" Her lower lip was trembling despite her best efforts to keep it still, and she felt wretched. She really hadn't wanted to speak of her troubles with Monsieur Reyer to Raoul. It felt… dishonest, somehow, as much as that made no sense. But the words had just come tumbling out, heedless of her wants. "He is absolutely intractable."

"Oh, Christine." Raoul released one of her hands to tilt her face upwards, and she was so startled by the unexpectedly intimate gesture that her lip ceased its trembling. "You oughtn't allow him to upset you so, him or the papers. One thing you must understand about the aristocracy is that we really have more leisure time than is healthy, and so we must constantly find new ways to amuse ourselves. The women _adore_ idle gossip. I am truly sorry for the pain it has caused you… but I refuse to give up your friendship due to the bored speculation of a handful of over-stuffed matrons."

Christine was just staring at him. The juxtaposition of force and tenderness with which he'd just spoken had frozen her in place much more effectively than any amount of snow ever could have. She felt like she was seeing someone new in her old friend's place, and it was disorienting, piled on top of the grief and hurt and loneliness she was already feeling.

"You're very dear to me, Christine," he continued, and she thought if she took one step forward—if she _could_ take one step forward—she might very well fall into the comfort and familiarity and love she could see in his eyes, and if that happened she might never want to climb back out. Her stomach was suddenly fluttering and vaulting and turns. "You always have been. I hope you know that."

"I do," she managed to say, and was faintly dismayed to hear the words come out in something of a croak. _A croak_—and her stomach took an extra vault at the unhappy association.

"Never forget it," he replied softly.

When he closed the distance between them and kissed her gently, Christine didn't know whether to exult or burst into tears. So she did neither, and allowed Raoul de Chagny to kiss her, and tried not to feel like she'd just closed a door and turned the key.


End file.
